


Title: Swept Away! - Two Boys' Adventures on The Great River (“With A Thousand Elephants!”) - A Pseudo Victorian Boys Adventure

by Derien



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adventure, Multi, Queer Themes, Science Fiction, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:34:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 62,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derien/pseuds/Derien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the distant future a group of settlers try to recreate Victorian England on another planet, with mixed results. Two boys from quite different social strata find themselves alone on a raft on an uncharted river.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Caravan Prepares

**Author's Note:**

> Original story, inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, P.G. Wodehouse, G.M. Fenn, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Daegaer.  
> My utmost, heartfelt thanks to Eor for brainstorming, listening, arguing, poking me with a pointy stick and supporting me in this venture since June of '05 - I'm sure the experience would have killed a lesser man. Daegaer has also been very patient, and several others (Littleredhead stands highly among them) have offered corrections, thoughts and considerations which have been very helpful.

Little Ian had an amazing set of lungs with which to punish the world at large when he felt the world had somehow punished him. This time his punishment had come in the form of a respectable scratch from a cat; and well-deserved it was, so Daisy informed him as she cleaned it (with a small bowl of water tepid from the kettle), for having tried to hold that calico cat too tightly.

“She’s not being mean, love, she’s just letting you know that cats need to be treated with respect. She has work to be getting on with, as do we all, and little ones of her own to feed.”

Daisy was barely more than a little one herself, and had needed to pull a chair over to the stove to even reach the kettle, but, though she was his youngest aunt, she was by far the most patient. Ian’s mother and Daisy’s other sister, as well as Daisy’s mother, were sewing an order of petticoats which they needed to get done, so, although Daisy was very tired of keeping him in line, she didn’t ignore him.

Her brother, Tom, who had been organizing his things in preparation for leaving the following morning to work Master Brackenstall’s caravan to Abernetty, found himself moved to compassion for the small girl. He was fairly sure he had not been as patient when it had been he who was expected to keep the little one — Daisy herself, at that time — from running and shrieking while mother worked.

He thought he had organized and double-checked and pruned and honed his kit about as much as could be expected, and regardless he was bound to forget something which was vital, so perhaps he ought to leave it and go see how the shoeing of the mules and horses was getting on.

“Mum,” he called into the sitting room, “Would you like me to take Daisy and Ian down to Johnston’s with me?”

She looked up from her sewing and smiled.

“You are a dear one. Thank you, Tom. We do have so much work to get through if these — " she nodded to the crate they were filling with folded petticoats, “are to go with the caravan, tomorrow.”

Ettie thanked him, too, saying she was sure he was her son’s favourite uncle and he’d be missed while he was gone. Tom grunted uncomfortably and turned slightly pink; he never knew how to take praise, and his freckled complexion always showed his discomfort to the world immediately. He thought such a small child could not have made such a choice, and that if he were so preferred he was not sure he deserved to be. He was excited at the thought of getting away from his family for the months of the summer, and felt a little guilty for being glad to be away, so he was going out of his way to be exceptionally pleasant for the last few days. It was obvious how important this order was, as his sisters and mother had worked through most of Landing Day. This was a most important holiday to everyone in Victoria Colony, marking the time of year one might expect that the back of the winter had been broken, and generally celebrated with a cold feast prepared the night before. The family had gathered, told stories and sung together, but during that day the needles had only paused for moments during which the women nibbled at the food which they had stayed up half the night preparing.

Daisy was delighted to get out of the flat, and chattered on endlessly while she dressed Ian in the little coat which Tom thought had probably belonged to each of them in turn. Little coats never seemed to wear out, as the children outgrew them first. Daisy’s own coat was a little large as yet, though she would grow into it. They were doing very well compared to many families in the Sandwell Corner part of Victoria City; they even had separate bedrooms for the boys and the girls, although there had been a short while that Tom and Bill had ended up sleeping in the dining room when Ettie had first married Robert, before the newly-weds had found rooms of their own.

When the City had first been commissioned certain of the Investors in the Colony had been of a progressive mind and argued that they could with very little extra cost provide the working men’s families with habitations larger by far than they had ever seen before. ’Let them see that they have already bettered themselves and they will work all the harder’, these self-made Lords had said, and had carried the point against those few of their Peers who had protested that such treatment would only encourage thoughts above such persons’ proper station. Indeed, this wisdom had been borne out, the large and empty rooms that had at first so awed the workers quickly filling with children and ensuring the enlargement and success of the Colonial venture.

Tom carried little Ian down the staircase, watching his footing carefully in the poor lighting, and only half listening to Daisy chattering along behind. She was apparently already feeling much bucked up at the thought of going to visit their brother, Joe, who was apprenticed to the farrier. She played her game of naming off all the cooking smells she could identify on her way down the stairs, trying to guess what each of the neighbour families were having for their meals, a habit Tom found amusing knowing that he was soon to not hear her chatter for weeks on end.

A fine mist dropped from a leaden sky into the narrow cobbled streets, gently soaking anyone who was out for long, though most of the inhabitants ignored the wet. The sun had barely shown its face for most of a month — typical of early spring — and the lack of actual downpour was enough to call it fine.

“Oh, it’s cold!” Daisy exclaimed. “How do you stand it?” She shrugged deeper into her too-large jacket.

“I’ve been trying to dress lightly all winter,” Tom replied. “The older men on the caravan last year said it would help me to be prepared for the cold in the mountain passes. The snow has just melted enough so that we can get the carts through. Last spring there were places we had to dig and push the carts through because it wasn’t fully melted, yet. And we’re going South, where it’s colder, or at least it’s supposed to be. When we at last came down from the mountains I was happy enough, last year! It seemed quite warm to me!”

Tom had been quite unready for the cold of the mountain passes the year before, and his blankets were inadequate. He had shivered badly in the nights until one of the other men had noticed his exhaustion and found an extra blanket for him. He had caught a sore throat and a slight fever, but rallied soon enough.

“Are you cold, Ian?” Daisy asked the little boy.

Ian, like most small children, did not seem to notice the cold. He was distracted by looking at the other people on the street — women on their way home from the marketing and children at play or running errands.

“We’ll be inside soon,” she continued, “And it will be warm, and we’ll see Uncle Joe. Won’t that be nice?”

Joe was only a little over a year older than Tom, (though most people guessed the opposite on seeing them together, as Joe was the shorter of the two from an early age) and they had been bitter rivals when they were young, but after Joe had been apprenticed to the farrier and had gone to live in Johnston’s household he had been glad to see Tom visit and the two brothers had become much better friends. Tom had formed a habit of showing up at Johnston’s and occasionally earning a little money by helping out with the animals while they were being shod. He had the same ability Joe did of judging a mule’s mood and being able to calm it or intercept its fit of temper, and the caravan master, Brackenstall, had hired him for this talent which he had observed, as well as a strong back and willingness to work.

Within just a few streets and turns they had left the neighbourhood of narrow streets and courtyards with laundry lines stretched overhead, where Tom was at home. Now they were among businesses; shop fronts were on the ground level and Tom had a vague idea that there were perhaps offices above those, though he could not imagine what those might be used for. Very shortly they emerged onto Mercantile Square. Johnston’s Farriers was one of the oldest buildings on the Square, sitting a little back, with a big, fenced yard which was now crowded with the horses and mules of the caravan. The day would be given over to checking the shoes of every beast, setting any loose nails and replacing shoes which were worn, so that their hooves would be best prepared for the long trek ahead of them.

A large, grizzled older man turned in at the gate just ahead of Tom and the children. He looked around, then caught sight of Tom and waved him over.

“Boy! Which is Mr. Brackenstall, the caravan master? I was told he would be here, and I have business with him.”

Tom peered through the milling mass of animals. “He will be with Mr. Johnston, who is the master farrier, most likely. They are nearly of a size, not too tall, but broad. Mr. Johnston is very dark brown, has quite curly hair and a beard, and Mr. Brackenstall has straighter hair and sort of redder complexion.”

“Good lad.” With that he moved off with a slightly rolling gait, accentuated by his long frame, toward where Brackenstall was leading a horse into the barn-like building, and they both entered into the gloom.

Tom and the children followed after and he found a good spot, out of the way of work, for them to perch and watch the shoeing. He himself went and smoothed the neck of the horse whose hooves Joe was working on. The stranger who had accosted Tom was haggling with Brackenstall half-heartedly — Tom guessed more from habit than need. It seemed that the man was offering to bring a couple of armed men, with their own carriage and weapons, so Tom wasn’t sure why anything needed to be charged at all, but he realized he was not at all up on the business of how to run a caravan.

Shortly Brackenstall excused himself to go back to his warehouse and see to the packing of the trade goods the caravan would be carrying as well as the victuals for the men.

“You can appreciate that there are a hundred details to be overseen before embarking on such a journey, I’m sure!” and the other agreed that he would not want any labour stinted. The two broke off their congress with a handshake.

“Who was he?” Tom asked Joe, when both of the older men had left.

Joe did not glance up from the shoe he was hammering.

“Works for Lord Phipps, I gather. Seems His Lordship has decided to send his son to a new school in Abernetty.”

“Have I heard of Phipps? Who is he?”

“He holds Clareheath. I think it’s to the North-East of town, beyond Timonburn and Karistead.” Joe replied, shrugging.

“The investor’s name was Clare?”

“Clarence, I believe. Father of the current Lord Phipps.”

This told Tom all he cared to know at the moment, for, like most boys, he had little interest in the gentry. All of the gentry were descended from the original investors who had bought Victoria Colony, and very few holdings had yet passed into the hands of distaff descendants, so Phipps could be assumed to be the family name as well as the titled name. He could guess that, although Clarence Phipps was one of the original investors, he could not have been one of the biggest contributors, as Tom was fairly certain that Clareheath was not one of the holdings just outside of Victoria City.

As each animal was finished Brackenstall’s men took it away and brought another in. Daisy ran back and forth devising small games of ‘helping’ to amuse Ian, and the steady stream of animals kept everyone busy and kept Tom’s mind off of how nervous he was about leaving on the morrow.

When work ceased for lunch Master Johnston invited Tom and the children to stay and have a dish of the stew which his housekeeper had set out on the long table in the corner of the forge. They all washed their hands under the ice-cold water from the hand-pump in the middle of the yard, and ate with a well-earned appetite. After they cleared their bowls away Joe disappeared for a few moments, and returned with a small package wrapped in brown paper.

As the wrapping fell away, Tom had to ask, “What is it?”

“You pull, like this,” said Joe, reaching to demonstrate.

The little cylinder telescoped out to reveal a glass tube.

“You unscrew the bottom — go ahead. Carefully, don’t drop the spring. You put your candle on top of the spring, so that it keeps it pushed up.”

It was a clever little candle-lanthorn, which Tom could see the usefulness of immediately. The little glass chimney kept the candle from blowing out, and when it was telescoped closed the glass chimney was well protected. Tom found he had to blink back the stinging in his eyes, and he threw his arms around his brother’s neck.

Joe patted his back and told him he would do their family proud, and when they parted they then had to console the children, who had thrown their arms around Joe and Tom’s legs and were wailing, though Ian probably had no idea what he was wailing about.

“Here, now, what has got into you, my big girl?” Tom asked, trying to be gentle and jovial.

“Oh, you’re going away!” said Daisy. “You’re really going away!”

“I have told you that.”

“I know, but I- I kept forgetting.”

“I went last summer. And the money I earned got you a slate for school, and a primer.”

“But... I missed you so much. It was just horrid without you! Besides, you taught me more this winter about reading than that awful old Miss Baggage.”

“It’s Miss Babbage, and don’t be ungrateful,” Tom chastised her, though he couldn’t help smiling at the way Daisy huffed, as only a young girl can.

That night, curled in his bed, he wondered if he should quit Brackenstall’s caravan and see if he could find a job in the city. He should not leave Brackenstall short a hand on the morning of leaving, though. And, as strange as the hills and forests, empty of people, were to him, raised in the city, he was looking forward to seeing them again. And also, little as he wanted to admit it, being away from his family would feel good.

It took him a long time to sleep.


	2. Young Master Ethan makes himself Disliked, and the Caravan Arrives in the Village of Saradell.

The following morning saw the men, horses, wagons and mule teams assembling in the pre-dawn gloom, each man, like Tom, doing his best to pretend that he was awake and not at all cold as he gave a final tug to knots on tarpaulins and buckles on harness, and all thinking kindly of families they had taken their leave of and would not see for several weeks. Tom's mother had risen even earlier than he had, ostensibly to make tea for him, but also to present him with a new suit of clothes which she had secretively made for him - of tough material, but well cut and tailored specifically for him - and to give him a final kiss on the cheek and pat on the shoulder before he stepped out into the still lamp-lit streets to find his way to the caravan-yard. Now, standing about waiting for the last members of the party to arrive and watching the mists pale, the bladder of tea hidden under his coat (which coat was a hand-me-down from his father and a little large, but his mother had kept it in good repair) provided so much warmth that he didn't want to drink it.

Brackenstall preferred to get an early start on the first day, leaving as soon as it was light enough for the horses to see their footing, but this morning he was to be delayed. It was a half hour after sunrise (if you could have seen the sun behind the persistent blanket of clouds), and the men, eager to be off after rising so early, were beginning to grumble, when the coach with the Phipps coat of arms and a smart driver joined them. The coach was accompanied by the grizzled old family retainer who had made the arrangements the day before, and a thin boy - greyly sallow of complexion and well-dressed but sour of expression - both on horse-back. Brackenstall satisfied himself with merely glaring, and jamming his hat down on his head, gave the command to the caravan to move.

As the caravan pulled out of the city and into the open country-side a reddish blur sped by on Tom's right and the thin boy on his bay horse far outpaced the caravan, racing up around a sharp bend in the road. Brackenstall glowered after him, but said nothing for the moment, which Tom found odd, as the Master tended to like all things in their order. As the caravan rounded the bushes at the bend, Tom (lucky enough to be riding in the first cart so that he could take lessons from the best driver, Pickering) caught sight of the boy on the bay horse and a young man a very few years his elder, also on horseback, having a discussion. Or, more likely, an argument, as the young man brushed the boy's hand off his arm and spurred his horse back toward town immediately upon the lead wagon rounding the bend. He was scowling blackly as he passed.

The boy was too far distant for Tom to read anything about his expression, though as Brackenstall rode forward, growling audibly that such behaviour could mean his life in the hills, the boy's stance visibly straightened.

"The land hereabout appears distinctly flat," he responded sharply, and reigned his horse around to head back toward where the coach had its place in line, his face set in hauteur.

"Ah," Tom thought, "This must be the young lord, then," for he had expected that the young lord would be riding inside the coach and had thought at first that this boy was another attendant, but he was sure no servant would have dared speak so to the caravan master.

It seemed a hard thing, to Tom, that a boy be asked to leave his school and friends, and, on his leave-taking, that his friend should have hard words with him, and he was just feeling a little sympathy for the supercilious Phipps - no wonder his expression was a bit sour - when Phipps, just passing by Tom's wagon, looked up and caught Tom looking down at him. Whatever Phipps saw in Tom's expression made him frown, and hurry his horse along, back down the line of the caravan.

The rest of that day Phipps spent riding up and down the line as if he were one of their outriders (the hired guards who protected the caravan and amused themselves while in the civilized lands by riding up and down carrying news and messages, or just chatting to pass the time) or a junior to the caravan master himself, offering criticisms to every man's work, until all heartily wished that he had not accompanied them, and the fact that he was often correct did nothing to ingratiate him to the men. He took great care to inspect the cart Tom rode on and point out to Tom that the knots holding down the tarred canvas were slipping in two places.

The grizzled older man who'd made the arrangements with the caravan introduced himself only as George, not explaining whether this was his Christian or surname. The men settled on calling him Mr. George, and readily accepted him despite their dislike of his master, as he was a friendly man with a pleasant disposition. He also moved up and down the line, but seemed legitimately to have a role as an outrider as he carried his own well-oiled rifle, a beautiful piece in the preferred Enfield style with scrolled metal chasing on the dark, polished wood stock.

The first day's travel brought them to the village of Saradell, where Brackenstall had a standing arrangement with one of the farmers to camp in a fallow field. It was an easy day's ride on horseback, but the caravan wagons moved more slowly, and Brackenstall liked to arrive in the mid-afternoon so that they would have time to conduct trading before sunset, therefore he pushed for them to make good time. The roads were relatively good this close to Victoria City, so that, though men and mules were tired by the pace, travel went smoothly.

The ridge which preceded the dell was not high, and the trees were thick, so that no very good view was to be had of the village. The first house was a miserly little affair half hidden in the trees, the hut of a woodcutter, and then there were several small, poor farms, which attempted to eke out some sort of living on the hillside. Tom did not, in fact, even wonder where they got the water to irrigate their small fields, because he knew nothing of farming, but Zardiackas, one of the outriders informed him that the hillside here was 'seasonally wet.'

"I'm not from here, I'm from Chu Holding, but the land looks quite similar to my family's farm. You can barely get the ground planted in the Spring, it's so soggy, and in Midsummer it all dries up. Most often the well would even dry up and we would need to take our cattle down to the river and haul our own drinking water up from the town well each day. Very inconvenient."

The most prosperous farms, with large and handsome houses, lay near the small river which ran through the bottom of the dell. The village had grown up at the crossroad between Victoria Road, which crossed the bridge, and Highbank Street, which had originally connected the farms on the far side of the river. As the caravan crossed the bridge children ran out from the school - the teacher having apparently decided that keeping them inside during such a momentous occasion was an exercise in futility as their concentration would not be upon their studies - and chased alongside the wagons as they wound through the square, West down Highbank Street, past the smithy and church to the Harmon farmhouse and eventually to the fallow field which one of the Harmon children pointed out as their appointed place this year.

The evening of the caravan's arrival was a happy one for the villagers, who made it an evening of entertainment, crowding down to the encampment with fresh-baked goods and fresh meats which they offered in trade for things which Brackenstall's caravan carried.

Pickering - a short, bald man whose ears stuck out and whose expression varied between amiable and worried - asked Tom to help him open their cart. The particular cart which Pickering had the honour of driving was a special one, a clever contraption which, once they had undone the ropes which held the tarp down, folded out and up such that it turned into a small shop-stall, within which Brackenstall had arrayed examples of nearly all the merchandise which the caravan carried this year. Among the products offered were seed stock, carefully packed cut crystal, and little telescoping candle-lanthorns such as Joe had given to Tom. Certain spices, teas, oils, and preserved food delicacies came from Eugenia, an island in the warm North. Cotton and dyes came from Eugenia as well, although the weaving and dying was mostly done in Victoria City.

The daughters of the farmer, Harmon, who owned the field were the first to arrive, and got to choose a few trinkets as part of the caravan's payment for the night. They were light haired girls, tending toward the buxom, friendly and chattering with the delight of seeing strangers, and somehow seeming far more numerous than their actual five.

Jennie Harmon, just in the middle and around Tom's own age, had abandoned her braids of the year before and now pulled her hair up under a bonnet. She was the quietest of the five and stood a little to one side, smiling shyly when he displayed for her the petticoats, christening dresses and embroidered boarder ribbons his mother and sisters had made, pointing out the delicate cursive "L" which they stitched into some obscure spot as their distinctive maker's mark.

The littlest girl, Vallie, who had shown them to the field, was fascinated by a kaleidoscope, while Annie, perhaps two years older than Jennie, campaigned with her mother for a hand-mirror set which included a matching comb and brush all made with vary-coloured woods from Eugenia. (Several larger furniture items made of these exotic woods were carefully packed away in one of the wagons, a speculation on Brackenstall's part - he felt he knew just the person in their eventual destination of Abernetty who would want those.)

Brackenstall, who was in company with the girls' father exchanging the winter's news, pointed out this or that which they might like, and came to an agreement with their father on the relative worth of what they might take. Tom was proud of the price which was commanded by the work done by the women of his family, though he realized with some surprise that it was more than twice what Brackenstall had given for them.

As other villagers arrived the scene became more hectic, and Tom and Pickering were kept running, pulling out items for inspection and and making note of the things bought to help with restocking the cart for their next stop. Brackenstall gave up his conversation for a while in the interest of haggling over prices, much of which was in the form of barter of fresh foods for the caravan men. Old George hung about the stall making conversation, particularly with any pretty girl - who he seemed to think liked him well - and the little time they had before dinner slipped quickly away. When the dinner bell was rung the stall was closed, and then the fresh foods which had been acquired from the villagers were shared by the men of the caravan around one fire, while Brackenstall hosted Mr. Harmon and his family as his particular guests at a separate fire.

Old George asked the young ginger-haired driver of the Phipps coach, who rejoiced in the name of Bartholomew Belvedier, to save him some pork pie, as he needed to wait on Phipps, who sat at Brackenstall's fire. Brackenstall, thought Tom, who looked over from the men's fire, seemed not entirely pleased with Phipps' presence, but the eldest Harmon daughter, who sat to Phipps' right, smiled broadly at him when he first sat down. Then Tom applied himself to a thick mutton stew and freshly baked bread with new butter, and thought he could hardly have been happier with his own mother's cooking.

Later he stepped away from the fire where the men were drinking, and, his eyes slowly adjusting to the uncertain shadows between the carts, was rechecking the knots on the canvas where Phipps had pointed out their inadequacy, when the three eldest of the farmer's daughters passed quite nearby as they walked back to the house, chatting about the pleasures of meeting new people and who they liked or did not.

"That young lord dresses quite nicely - he must be very rich," observed Annie.

Her older sister, the one who had been sitting next to Phipps (Tom thought perhaps she was Maggie), snorted derisively. "If only his manners were as nice as his dress! He may know which fork to use at table, but his speech to me was not so courteous. I thought at first we might make him a match with our Jennie, but I wouldn't want him as an in-law."

"That's all right, though. He may be rich, but I don't like him as much as-," Jennie broke off, obviously embarrassed to have said so much.

"Which? Aren't the men all a bit old for you?" asked Annie, poking her sister in the ribs and chuckling.

"Well...”

“Come on!”

“If you must have it, then! The tall, freckled boy who was fetching for us from the cart. He was with them last year, and he may be a few years older than I, but - Oh!"

Seized with something akin to guilt as he realized that she was talking about him, Tom had stepped from the shadow of the cart.

"Sorry, miss, didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, she's quite all right," said her oldest sister, grinning at him broadly.

Poor Jennie was quite red. "Lovely to see you again!" she stammered out.

"Thank you." He hardly knew how he had suddenly found himself facing her, only that it had seemed wrong to be listening to her thoughts on him while he remained unseen. Now he was out of his element - he was not one like Old George, to be able to simply start talking to pretty girls. "It's nice to see you, too. You've grown." It flashed through his mind that this could be taken badly, so he added, "Taller! I mean, since last year."

She stood for a moment, twisting the ribbon of her bonnet while her sisters smirked.

"So've you. Er.”

It was obvious that neither of them had the slightest idea how to continue, so Maggie took pity on them and made introductions all round.

“This is your second year with the caravan, isn't it, Tom?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Do you see a future for yourself in being a merchant?”

“Possibly, Ma'am,” he replied, hesitantly. “I do like the work. I work with the mules, and I seem to be good with them.”

“Very good. An ability with animals is valuable in many fields. How old are you?”

“Only sixteen this year.”

“The same age as Jennie. Tall for your age! I had thought you were older.”

“Everyone does, Ma'am.”

“Well, at your age you have plenty of time to think on what you would like to do. Now I think we need to be getting home. Have a good evening, and we'll hope to see you when you come back this way in a few weeks.”

“Good night, then!" Jennie blurted out, and, with backward glances, hurried off, back the stone farmhouse which rambled over the top of the hill.

"Good night!" he called, disappointed and yet relieved. What a terribly confusing situation. She was a pretty enough girl, seemed quite nice, and her sister seemed to approve of him, but she was certainly above him, being the daughter of a wealthy farmer. Wasn't she? Why would she be noticing him, a boy from Sandwell Corner? On the other hand, perhaps these young ladies did not realize where he was from. The men of the caravan might be anyone, and the Harmon sisters probably knew nothing about Victoria City and his neighbourhood. His clothes should have given him away, but perhaps the new suit was nicely enough cut that the weight of the material did not signify to their eye and they may not remember the patches on his suit of last year. In only the travel of this one day it had not had time to even get dirty, and he suddenly felt like an imposter.

Tom's Grandfather sometimes muttered when he was in his drink about the way things worked in Victoria Colony - “They give us these huge houses but treat us like dirt! I may have had to sleep in a unit the size of a coffin back on Rigelfour, but I could consider myself as good as anybody!” - but Tom had grown up in the Colony and wasn't really sure what his Grandfather was on about. His school teacher, in his brief period of formal learning, had explained that there was a natural order to things, and that as a working man his life would be much simpler than that of the Lords, who descended from the Investors and had the responsibility of keeping the Colony, and the minister who ran the parish school (and kept a watchful eye on all his parishioners) had explained to Tom and his friends that as long as they were honest and hard working they had nothing to feel ashamed of in their lot in life.

Now Tom resolved to work all the harder in the days to come in hopes that the suit would get properly broken in and no one would accuse him of putting on airs. He could only find his bedroll, for now, and hope that none of the other men had noticed this conversation to have an opportunity to tease him.


	3. A Poor Shot and The Happy Recovery of a Misplaced Memento.

The sky had lightened to the deep blue which foretold the eventual dawn when sounds which at any other time of the day would have been quiet, as of someone poking up the fire and setting up a wooden rack, brought the camp awake, and Tom was forcibly reminded of a quirk of the leader of their outriders, Ivanovitch, whose daily ritual it was to throw sweet-smelling herbs upon the coals of the last evening's fire and spray his clothing lightly with water, spreading the garments out upon the wooden rack to dry. This procedure, he claimed, discouraged the small, biting creatures which liked to take up residence in clothing and bedding. Most of the men considered these pseudo-bedbugs (or bibbetts, as they were called in Tom's neighbourhood) as minor nuisances, but Ivanovitch harboured a deep suspicion that they carried disease.

The other men made it a joke that Brackenstall favoured Ivanovitch because he got the others up early. It was also murmured that Brackenstall had always given him the easier jobs which would allow him to avoid getting dirty, and had quickly elevated him to the status of leader of the outriders, second only to Brackenstall himself, because of his dandyish care for his looks and smell, as the daily treatment of smoke helped keep his clothing - which always fit perfectly on his long, lean frame - less wrinkled and nicely scented. Still, despite his airs and odd mannerisms, Ivanovitch was well liked for his outgoing, kind personality and affectionate, self-effacing humour. In fact it was he who had found an extra blanket for Tom the previous Spring when he had taken ill crossing the mountains.

The cook soon joined Ivanovitch at the fire, simmering a pot of grain with bits of dried fruit and meat, which would serve as a hot and nourishing, if unexciting, breakfast for the men, while the others rolled up their bedding, saddled horses and harnessed mules. They would be off from Saradell far earlier than they had left Victoria City, and Brackenstall was pleased overall. However, as Tom was tending to his teeth at the edge of the camp just after wolfing his own bowl of gruel (he had awoken feeling amazingly hungry considering that the night before his belly had been distended as he had rolled into his blanket) he happened to see the caravan leader striding away from Phipps' carriage, scowling. He touched the ginger-haired coach driver, Bartholomew, on the arm as he passed by on his way back to his wagon and asked what the meaning of that might be.

"He has asked young master Ethan to ride inside his carriage, today. Says it's safer, as we go into the hills, soon. Master Ethan... attempted to make him change his mind. But I think he'll comply."

Tom allowed as that was hard luck, but perhaps for the best. "No fun at all. But, begging your pardon, it's hard on the men having him criticizing like that, if you can see how that might be."

Bart laughed. "I can't say as I disagree, at the moment. He isn't always this difficult. Why, I swear to you that often he can be very kind. Generally overbearing and spoiled, but I think he has a good heart. Talk is he had a falling out with his father. They're too much alike, a bit hot tempered, and his father wasn't happy with his friends... or so they say. I don't really know, of course. What I do know is that this plan to send him to Abernetty happened quickly. Nobody knew a thing about it more than two days before we left, and my sweetheart was none too pleased with my being specifically demanded by the young Lord to accompany him, I can tell you, though it is an honour of course, and I'll enjoy seeing different scenes. And she's another you don't want to cross, but she knows you can't do much about what Lords want! Do you have a sweetheart, yourself?"

Tom said he did not, and Belvedier expressed his surprised that so fine-looking a young man should not, and for all that she might be troublesome he wouldn't trade his own for anything, “She's hard on me, she is, but it's all for my own good, I'm sure!” and they left the conversation there as the word was passed that it was time for the caravan to be moving.

Tom wanted to give young Lord Ethan every opportunity of being the kindest master in all of Victoria Colony for the sake of the pleasant Bart Belvedier's good opinion, yet it was a hard job to think well of someone who seemed to insist on continuing to make himself unpleasant. Thankfully, whenever the caravan was moving all through that day the young Lord did indeed ride inside his carriage and did not bother anyone.

They rolled up out of Saradell before dawn, and topped a ridge as the first of the sun's rays reached them. But, though the day had dawned clear, clouds moved in before noon, and a light drizzle accompanied them as the moved through the gently rolling wooded country. Each man had as a matter of course come prepared with some sort of oilskin coat or cape and a hood or hat, as they were mostly from the Victoria City area where this was such a normal weather pattern as to be completely ignored. A slight drizzling rain nearly every day was what kept this land green and fertile, and the similarity to the region of Old Earth known as England was one of the many qualities which had attracted the Investing colonists, who had believed that a continuously mildly annoying weather pattern had been the hitherto unrecognised agent which had taught the English their legendary perseverance.

Rain dripped steadily off their hoods for most of the day, and the men of the caravan merely hunched their shoulders a bit and continued on, ignoring it completely. The hooves of the the mules and horses churned the road to muck and often a stretch which had been fine for the first wagons was nearly impassable for the last. There were a few outlying farmsteads in the foothills, and as the the farmers would make a trip to Saradell or to their neighbours they might effect some repairs upon the road. However, as it was still fairly early in the spring they had not had many opportunities to do so as yet. The caravan would draw to a halt as a cart mired in the muck, and the men would leap down from horse or driving bench and lend a hand, fetching rocks and deadwood to provide traction or lending a shoulder to lift the entrenched wheel. One of the wagons was devoted to carrying gravel, and they refilled it wherever there was a good deposit near the road so as to have a ready supply with which to top off their repairs for a better road surface.

In the late afternoon they arrived at a clearing by the road which had been used in previous years as a camp, and there they made their dinner, in the continuing steady drizzle. As they ate their dinner - gruel, of course, with more dried meats this time - the sun became visible below the clouds and gave them a few final rays before dropping below the horizon. The men were subdued, there was little singing this evening; only one attempt at a sprightly tune by Ivanovitch who, as always, tried to keep the men's spirits up. One of the men, Carleton, had lost his favourite flask, and was feeling particularly out of sorts.

The ground here was sandy, and they dug small trenches around the wagons to help drainage, but even the oilskins probably would not keep the damp of the ground out over the hours of the night, so the men folded down the gates at the backs of the wagons and stretched the tarpaulins out over them to form something of a makeshift tent. With legs curled up two or even three men might fit, sleeping half-sitting up against the load, though it was close quarters and not very comfortable. Even less so if the load of the wagon was wooden furniture, or in crates. Tom felt quite lucky that several bolts of cloth had been stored at the back of the cart he shared with Pickering. He was not so lucky that Pickering snored loudly. Still, it didn't take long for him to fall deeply asleep, and he hardly knew another thing until again he heard Ivanovitch setting up his drying rack in the morning.

He, like all the others, crept with creaking limbs from beneath the tarpaulins and stretched gingerly, unkinking his limbs, finger-combing his hair, splashing a bit of cold water from his canteen on his face and wiping it off with his shirt-tail, and they were off onto another day pretty much the same as the last, though this day was interspersed by sudden javelins of sunshine which illuminated bright green new buds above and scatterings of tiny white flowers beneath, and this evening there was more joviality around the camp-fire at dinner, and many of the men opted to stretch oilcloths beneath the carts and risk getting a little damp in order to stretch their limbs out.

They were now so far beyond Saradell that the animals in this region had not developed a fear of man, and many small animals and even a few larger beasts were often seen. The men quite often took a shot from the wagons as they rolled by, and downed much small game, which the cook cleaned on the moving wagon, tossing the offal into the woods. He would cook the game in the evening as the caravan never stopped during the day unless it was forced to. For sustenance during the day the men had a mix of nuts and seeds with berries which was kept under the seats of the wagons in leather-gasketed metal boxes.

The great swamp elk had little to fear from predators due to its size and fearsome tusks (primarily used for scooping up water plants, but effective for defence), and often people thought them stupid because they would stand and watch a man load his gun. On this fine morning, the sun barely over the horizon and the night mists still drifting up from a mere nearby the road, a huge bull elk stood, meditatively chewing as it watched the caravan pass, providing a seemingly perfect target for a young man who had been handed a gun and commanded to learn how to use it.

Somehow Pickering, who was driving, was sunk half in sleep, trusting the mules to find their own footing and follow the wagon ahead of them. He barely noticed when Tom lifted his rifle to take aim. Tom was just pulling the trigger when something flashed by and clanked off the mud board in front of their legs. Pickering lifted his head.

"Here, boy, what do you think you're doing!?"

The shot, of course, went wide, but the bull elk bellowed and turned, blundering off into the bushes. Pickering drew their cart up short, slightly to the right, and Belvedier, driving the Phipps coach directly behind, was forced to pull a bit to the left before his horses wanted to halt. Lord Ethan, who had been riding up next to Belvedier on the coachman's seat, stood and applauded as the whole caravan came to a halt.

"Good show! You managed to miss something the size of a barn!"

Old George rode up to where the elk had stood, and inspected the area. "Worse luck - you didn't miss it entirely. You've winged the poor beast, and it's bleeding." He glared at Tom, then turned to Phipps. "Sir, I can't leave a wounded animal to die slowly. Permission to go after it."

"Certainly, George, of course."

They came to a halt, and George was off before Brackenstall, who had been riding the line, managed to return and countermand the order. The caravan waited for nearly an hour, during which time Tom was soundly harangued by Brackenstall for his lack of forethought, because, as Brackenstall said, it should have been evident that there would be no way to bleed out such a large animal while travelling.

"Did you think we could hang it from the side of a cart like we do the little conies and birds, trailing gallons of blood behind us?"

But all of that did not bother Tom as much as the thought that he had wounded an animal who might now die, suffering. A clean kill was a far different thing, he thought, but the swamp elk was not so unlike a large mule, barring the tusks and its rather more pleasant demeanour. He was very relieved when George returned empty-handed and reported that the blood speckles had ended, but the great beast's trail had gone on.

"I think it will live, and perhaps learn to be a bit more wary, though I don't know as they ever learn anything. You're lucky, lad, that this wasn't the mating season, when they're as likely to charge as run."

But Phipps topped off Tom's embarrassment by opining that there was nothing for it but that Tom must take shooting lessons with Old George starting that very evening. Brackenstall grunted approval of this plan, and Tom burned with shame, but agreed that he would do so. The caravan creaked back into motion.

Mr. George began immediately from horseback, riding alongside Tom and Pickering's wagon. He gave Tom a long lecture on using the correctly sized calibre gun for the game and never taking a shot until one was sure of it, and never, ever, letting a human see "the dark part of your gun" unless Tom planned to take that man's life. Mr. George seemed to have much more sympathy with innocent animals than with men, who could be presumed to know what they were about when choosing to attack men with guns.

When they stopped to make camp he set up some targets and let Tom shoot, and then proved himself to be a kindly instructor. Each shot was corrected with encouragement and explanations of windage and lead, and by the end of the lesson, although there wasn't much time before dark, Tom felt himself much improved, and thanked Old George most sincerely.

"Would we be able to do this again tomorrow evening?"

"Certainly, lad, my pleasure. You're a promising student; you have a firm hand and I'm sure you'll be more sensible in the future."

Late the next morning, as Tom leaned down to open the small bin beneath the seat for a handful of the food kept there (Pickering continually teased at him that there would be none left when they needed it, but he couldn't help himself - hunger pangs continually plagued him), he saw a glint of metal in the shadow of the bench. Reaching for it, he pulled out a flask with raised pictures upon it. He hesitated to ask Pickering about it, but at that moment the man glanced over.

"Is that Carleton's flask?"

"I don't know, perhaps it is." Tom called to Ivanovitch, who was not far away. Brown was closer, but Tom had a dislike of Brown, who made callous jokes. "Is this the flask which Carleton lost?"

"I'll take it to him! What luck it showed up. Everyone thought he must have dropped it beside the road, and he despaired of it. A gift from his father, too." Ivanovitch took the flask and spurred his horse back down the line. Shortly he returned with a coin which Carleton had sent back to Tom in thanks for having found his beloved keepsake. Tom felt a bit odd about profiting from what was the merest happy accident, and he felt even more uncomfortable when he noted Brown scowling at him that evening as the men rubbed the mules down before dinner.

"If you ask me," Brown commented loudly to Farley, "It's a bit odd that young LaPierre just happened to find that flask. How does something turn up under the seat of a wagon Carleton rarely goes near?"

Tom's stomach twisted in knots. Brown was not much older than he was and had taken a dislike to him the year before, Tom really wasn't sure why, and his feelings obviously had not changed over the winter. Ivanovitch had assured him that it was just because everyone liked Tom better and that Tom had no reason to fear Brown, but it was hard for Tom to ignore anger and dislike, being a friendly soul himself and very sensitive of other's moods. He didn't feel a need to like every person around him, but he did want relations with the other men who he worked with to be cordial. He wished he could find some explanation for why the flask had been under the wagon seat, so that he could defend himself if anyone asked him, so he thought hard all evening as to any way it could have gotten there. Carleton had probably not been near his wagon, as he was a driver, not an outrider with the ability to ride up and down the line. When they were pulled up in the circle in the evenings to camp he may have walked by drinking from it, and set it down as he spoke with someone. Still, Tom didn't think it could have been under the seat all day, as he considered he would have noticed it sooner than he did, it being a shiny, eye-catching sort of object. It was not until he was falling asleep that evening that it came to him. He was snapped back awake by an almost-dream recollection of the shiny object which had flown by him just as he was taking aim on the swamp elk. The flask had been tossed into his wagon by someone, he was almost certain. And why, he wondered? With the intention of spoiling his aim? Yet even with these considerations causing his mind to leap, his body was exhausted and he soon succumbed to sleep.


	4. The last farm. Into the wild lands. A strange bridge is built.

Each day as the caravan climbed higher into the mountains and the road became narrower and rockier the work of getting the carts across spots where the road had washed out became more difficult; the washouts were more extensive, the incline which the cart were being pulled up were steeper and the men grew more and ever more exhausted. Although Tom had at first been almost eager to leap off the wagon and shovel gravel up from some roadside pit, his young muscles delighting in a chance to work, the novelty grew less interesting as the days wore on, and more often than not by the end of the day Tom was so tired that he barely had the energy to practice shooting with Old George before dinner, although he made a special point to keep with the lessons. The ground was hard and the stones sharp under the wagon he shared with Pickering, or when they slept in the cart under the tarpaulin he was quite cramped, yet most nights he fell into a sound slumber the moment his eyes had closed.

It developed as well that this year all of the men found the work even more tiresome than it had been the year before, if that were possible, for the addition of the young lord to their party. The preceding year they had not had to endure his constant observations, as he stood idly by watching the proceedings while they shovelled or cut boughs or put their shoulders to lifting a badly stuck wagon from a mud hole. He would occasionally call a languid word as though intending encouragement to the workers, entreating them to “Lift with your legs and preserve your backs,” “Give a care to the branch, it doesn't appear strong enough to use as a lever,” or some other such pointless advice impossible to follow. Mostly the men gritted their teeth and ignored him, though they sometimes glared in his direction when his back was turned.

After the third or fourth such event Brackenstall spoke with him, and Phipps thereafter kept himself away from the men who were working. Bart later told Tom that Lord Ethan had been requested to remain inside the coach even when they were stopped, but that the best he seemed able to manage was to sit on the driver's bench or in the shade of a tree and play a hand or two of cards with Bart or George. Usually he could not curb himself even so much, and he roamed the area, up and down the road, or made short sojourns into the woods. Bart and Tom both agreed that being asked to stay inside a coach when one had the opportunity to see new sights and possibly even new animals that may not have been discovered as yet was asking a lot of a boy, and that they could scarcely have followed such an order even though it meant a caning - which it surely would for one of them, but might not for a young Lord.

Brackenstall did not realize that Phipps was doing this wandering until one day he was not on hand when it became possible for the caravan to move on, and Old George was compelled to beg that they wait a few minutes until Phipps should return or could be found. Brackenstall was furious, of course, and his face turned a deep brick red, which Tom might have found amusing did he not, with all the other men now waiting with backs sore from cutting saplings to cover the latest long stretch of deep mud, find it equally annoying that Lord Ethan had nothing better to do with his time than to create trouble.

"Should he not have brought books with him to study?" asked Pickering, of no-one in particular. "If he is doing so badly in his schooling that they must send him to a more highly disciplined school, he must need to study!"

"Perhaps," replied Ivanovitch "he needs discipline because he is this sort of boy, who will cause trouble whenever he is allowed free time."

"Aye, you have the right of it, there!" said Pickering. "A good thrashing is what Brackenstall should give him!"

"Does Brackenstall stand in a place where he can do that, being paid to transport the lad? I'm not sure; and, I think, neither is he. On the one hand, a schoolmaster might give the boy a caning, on the other Brackenstall may want to feel that his reasons are just before he resorts to such, for news will surely go back to the Lord his father by way of Mr. George and young Belvedier, who much likes the boy, and whether the father will agree that the caning was deserved might mean a great deal of difference to Brackenstall's future business.”

"The boy needs a good thrashing," Pickering muttered, and at that moment Tom could not help but silently agree, for it seemed to him that he would never have been allowed to be so free and cheeky, not to mention inconvenient to others, or allowed to wander about so, alone, in unknown places and into possible danger. For certainly there was a chance that any new and undiscovered animal he might meet could be dangerous to a human. If he had not been caned by one of his parents he would certainly have been hit - for his own good - by an older sibling, and he knew well that the only way he escaped such treatment from the men he worked with was to always keep a civil tongue in his head and listen carefully to instructions.

Just now, though, it was not long after midday, he had worked hard, and his annoyance with Phipps was partly subsumed by his exhaustion, and the warmth of the sun which shone through the budding branches of the trees. It was difficult to maintain a head of anger on a day which held such promise of summer to come. They would make camp that evening just a little shorter of their goal, and slightly less tired, perhaps. All in all he reflected, it wasn't as though he had any real reason to care to move on any quicker. So he calmed himself, and lay back upon the grass by the edge of the road, watching the light of the sun cause blooming patterns on the insides of his eyelids and letting the complaints of Pickering and the gentle responses of Ivanovitch fade to a buzz in the background.

It was some time before Lord Ethan was found, and Brackenstall's blustering awoke Tom.

"Oh!" he groaned to Ivanovitch - the first person he saw when he opened his eyes - "I'm all stiff!"

Ivanovitch grinned broadly and offered him a hand up. "It seems we're on our way at last - the wandering lamb has been found, if the row up the road is any indication. And, you've missed the fun! Brown's wagon was invaded by some sort of serpents, the like of which no-one has seen before. Very fast creatures, they were hiding under his rain cape which he had left on the bench, and gave him quite a surprise. You would have laughed to see how he jumped and shrieked!"

"I'm sorry I missed that! Still, it can't be good for Mr. Brackenstall to yell so much," Tom observed.

"Indeed not!" Ivanovitch agreed. "Facing down bandits would be much better for his constitution. At least he could kill them and be done with it!"

Brackenstall smiled, however, when he saw the first of the goats, sheep and shaggy cattle on the hillside at the end of the week, as it meant they were still on schedule and approaching Sarnwythdon.

A group of children playing near the road turned up their heels and scampered ahead through the fields whey they saw the caravan, so that the adults of the household were gathering outside the main house when they arrived, offering cool mugs of sweet, clean well-water and asking how the road had been. They were delighted to see new faces after the long winter with only their own company, even though there were at least a dozen adults and innumerable children of varying ages all living in the homestead, and they were eager for the news of other parts of the Colony. Tom and a number of other men leapt down off the carts to lead the mules into the field indicated for their use, unhitching them and rubbing them down before doing anything else so that the animals would have time to graze before dark.

Sarnwythdon was a sprawling farm inhabited by a single extended family, though it seemed nearly a village in its own right; a large main house with several additions and many barns, sheds and other outbuildings - one for almost every function that might be needed. The farm had its own forge, a summer kitchen separate from the house, and a broad veranda on the back of the house where the family might sit on warm evenings. They never tired of telling how a certain rude outbuilding had been the first house built by the great-grandfather of the clan, Henry, and his wife, Matilda, with their own hands, and they had lived in it and raised ten children, most of whom had lived to marry and raise children of their own there. The large house had been built by his children, who had a much greater skill with carpentry than he had (an increase in all manual skills being a defining quality to the first generation who had been born in Victoria Colony, presumably because it was absolutely required that they work with their hands from the very earliest age, unlike their parents, who had arrived as adults), and much beautified by their children who had designed and created much ornamentation during the long winter months. Their home and their outbuildings were the pride and joy of this family, only exceeded by their pride in the quality of their livestock, particularly their shaggy, short-legged cattle.

The year before Ivanovitch had told Tom that the Sarnwyth farm was unusual for the fact that it had been founded and built by the family which worked it. Hypothetically it would not now be impossible for a family to homestead far from the towns, but Sarnwyth had, at the time he had founded the farm, in fact been breaking the law by taking himself and his wife off into the mountains, as they (along with most other working class people) had been brought to the colony as indentured servants and had an obligation to pay off their passage before leaving the service of their Lord. However, by the time the farm had been discovered it had become a going concern and had been able to not only pay taxes but also pay off the passage of Henry and Matilda as well as the price of the pair of cows they had stolen, all with interest, so that Lord Hemsworthy, whose land they were considered to have squatted upon, had been moved to petition Lord Barnstable, to whom they had been indentured, for their freedom. The effectiveness of this petition had undoubtedly been aided by the fact that Henry and Matilda were long past the age when they could be useful servants at the time the farm had been discovered.

The men of the caravan were well-fed that evening, several chickens meeting their demise, reserved hams and kegs of cider from the previous Fall being brought up from the cellars along with the last of the potatoes and turnips, and elderly fruits being transformed by the spices brought by the caravan into quite edible pies. They were also graciously invited to sleep in the hayloft of the barn, where the hay provided them a much softer bed than the ground, and, although the chaff made them sneeze, they greatly appreciated the luxury. They knew they had not much further to go before they crested the first mountainous barrier, the Governor's Range, and that this was the last house they would see until they came down from the second range of hills, the Hensteeth. In between the two mountain ranges were wild-lands, ruled by beasts and roaming groups of men little better than beasts who had left society, often running from prosecution for crimes.

As Tom lay full-bellied in the hay he digested not only the dumplings, but much sad news of the Sarnwyth family. They had lost two of the eldest of the clan as well as a new baby during the winter, all to sickness, though they all repeated, slowly shaking their heads, that it could have been much worse. Tom remembered having met the old man the previous Spring, and thinking him completely senile, but very happy.

One of the younger daughters had begun upon another story - "My sister Clara got engaged!” - but was hushed by her mother, whose mouth compressed in a narrow line as she shook her head. Later the girl had whispered it to Mr. George and Tom, fairly bursting with the delight of having a scandalous story to tell and someone to tell it to. A young man had come to their house in the Fall, asking for work and a place to sleep. He had proposed to Clara after only a few months and they had planned to have the wedding in the spring when the roads had cleared enough to make their way to the church in Saradell. Then, only a little over a week before, with the spring thaw, the young man had simply disappeared in the middle of the night, as quietly as he had arrived.

"Took my sister Clara right in, he did. Seemed like a good enough worker, but we think now he was just looking for a place to winter over, and that he was headed for the wilds to become an outlaw. He might even have been a murderer or some such!"

“Or escaping debt,” Mr. George suggested, “Or even just bored - it's not unheard of. But he was certainly a bounder to toy with your sister's affections so! I don't know what sort of man could do that - she's a lovely young lady and seems quite nice. If I find him shall I hit him for her?”

“Oh, do!” said the girl, in a warm flash of sisterly affection.

And he promised he would, and gladly.

Tom had also been amazed at the amount of news which he heard Brackenstall and Ivanovitch relate, for he had not imagined that so much had happened in Victoria Colony in the past year, as he barely ever concerned himself with the doings of the Lords. He didn't understand politics and he knew that he did not, for why in fact would he remember the name of some Lord who had apparently arranged for various favours to go to his neighbour in order that a dam might be built to help irrigation in his own district? Some higher up son marrying someone else's daughter he vaguely understood would bring their two families into alignment, and several older men clucked their tongues over what those families might do with their combined powers, but what the new bride wore to the balls of the winter season was of no interest to him. However, Tom did notice that Brackenstall had society page sketches of those balls which he handed around to the ladies of the family, and patterns for the dresses worn, which they cooed and giggled over, and then they were gifted with some patterns for more practical dresses and suits of the latest fashions, and the men were offered small tools and gadgets, and the children small toys, so that Tom knew the family would be more than happy to host them again the next year.

In the next days the climb grew steeper, as they neared Chikang Pass. It grew colder and the air was thinner, the mules and men as well grew baulky and tempermental. The mules spirits improved in the evening when Tom and the others brushed them down, inspected their hooves, and gave them a ration of sweet oats. Cook did his best for the men, as did Ivanovitch, who spent all his time riding up and down teasing them into smiling and flattering them that they were certainly the best crew ever and worked so well together.

The road here wound up along the side of a mountain which Tom had been told was called Pouvrir, though he was baffled as to how one could decide where one mountain left off and another began in order to give them names, let alone how one really told one from another. And here, with a wall on one side and a drop on the other, the caravan came to a halt. Word was passed back that the road was washed out, and the men grumblingly pulled their shovels from the carts, but very soon a second message came back that they may as well put them away again.

The men clustered toward the front of the line, but few could see well due to the narrowness of the road.

"The road is washed away - Landslide - The road has fallen down the side of the mountain!" came the word back.

Each man needed to shuffle to the front to see for himself. Even as advertised, the road had fallen off the mountain. It was not a particularly broad gully, but the road simply ceased to exist, and fifteen feet later, it resumed. Only four feet below the level of the road were the larger rocks, and smaller rocks, gravel and sand spread in a fan into the trees and underbrush below for yards.

It took only some ten minutes consideration before a team of men were dispatched to fell two trees. It would be some little time before they could be expected to return, so Cook started a fire and made fresh tea for all the men. Although it required backtracking nearly a half mile, a path down and around the washout was scouted and Tom and other mule handlers were told to unharness their teams and lead them by this route to the other side of the washout. Once safely upon the road again, the mules stood about incuriously, flicking their ears, but Tom was eager to see what possible plan had been conceived for moving the wagons across this seemingly impossible gap. He could think of no way in which the entire road could be rebuilt using only two long trees. They could possibly construct a bridge, but that would take longer than the time they had left in the day and this was a singularly inauspicious place in which to camp.

The trees had already been stripped and peeled when the men returned with them, and they were laid across the washout at a distance somewhat nearer together than the wheels of the carts, and stakes hammered in on either side of each end of each tree to hold them in place. Ropes were tossed across the wash and the first cart was tied to them. Tom and another mule handler were asked to harness two teams of mules together and to the ropes. Tom's heart leapt to his throat as the cart he thought of as his was pulled over the edge of the washout and lowered onto the tree trunks, but, though the trees bowed and swayed, and their ends dug into the dirt and slipped a little, they were new and green, quite resilient, and they caught the weight of the cart and supported it. The cart now safely rested upon its axles, its wheels hanging down on either side, and thus it was pulled across the gap. At the other side the wheels hit the embankment, but here more ropes and pulleys, which had been suspended from trees nearby, were used to lift the cart directly up the last few feet so that it could be pulled back onto the road by the mules. The manoeuvre having been proven possible, they proceeded to bring the rest of the carts across in this manner. Hours of the day's travel had been lost, and the road had still to be properly repaired, but for now the caravan was reassembled and moving would make their camp for the evening in their traditional point in Chikang Pass.


	5. The Ghost of the Caravan

There was no single moment when it was obvious that they had crested the pass, no shiver of recognition at having passed from the lands directly under Her Majesty's rule (represented in the form of The Governor) to those merely vaguely claimed by it. Later in the day Tom realized that Pickering was asking him to lean on the brake much more often that he had for a while as the road was now sloping down more often than up. It had probably been doing so for some little while, but he did not afford that nearly as much of his thought as he did his consideration of dinner, nor anywhere near as much as he attended the quick, sleek animal he had sighted in the underbrush. He attempted to describe the creature to Pickering, but the man, not surprisingly, did not have a name for it. New animals native to the planet were discovered with regularity, and Tom daydreamed that perhaps he would have some small part in bringing some unknown creature to the attentions of the naturalists of Victoria Colony.

However, Pickering was no good test of if the animal was yet known. The man usually had little interest in the world around him, although he focused completely on any job he was set to and was a very careful worker. He also had a seemingly instinctual understanding of mules, which Ivanovitch would tease him about, even to his face, saying that it was because he was so closely related to them, or that his brain had been replaced with that of a mule when he was young. Ivanovitch would then immediately contradict this with; "No, that can't be right - our Mr. Pickering is so much better tempered," and a fond smile, which forestalled any angry retort, or impression that Ivanovitch may be cruel.

And, as one might imagine, Pickering was not a particularly talkative man. Tom himself was no scintillating deviser of conversation, and long silences would fall between him and Pickering as they drove. These silences were not uncomfortable to Tom; he welcomed Ivanovitch's ramblings, but he found Pickering to be companionable and never sullen.

The one change which was startling in it's suddenness after they crested the pass was that in the weather. Up until then their days had been mostly overcast or rainy, with a rare treat of midday sun - typical spring weather such as Tom had known all of his life. The other side of the mountain range was another matter. Here mornings dawned fine and clear day after day, with only a little rain in the afternoon, and even though Tom had experienced this the year before he found himself in the same disbelief. With the sun one grew too warm, sometimes, even just riding on the carts, and coats were laid aside under the seats or even tucked beneath the tarpaulin. And without rain to contend with the evening meals produced by the cook became more elaborate affairs, with treats such as honey-sweetened corn bread being offered nearly every night, which Tom greatly appreciated.

It was within a couple of days of clearing the pass that some of the men of the caravan began to talk more seriously about the poltergeist. Ivanovitch had probably been the first person to suggest this answer to the odd little things that had begun happening since leaving Sarnwythdon. And he had meant it in jest, but some of the other men had taken up the idea quite seriously. Ivanovitch delighted in whipping up a conversation about how inexplicable these small pranks were, and how no human could possibly have carried them out without being caught, and then he would wink aside to Tom until Tom began to suspect Ivanovitch himself as the prankster.

When he hinted this, however, Ivanovitch only laughed.

"I only wish it had been me! I owe a debt of gratitude to this person for saving me from the boredom of the road. Oh, just recall Stefan's face when he found that dried chillies had been mixed with his midday food, and then when he gulped his cold tea to quench the burn it had been laced with the same - it was priceless!"

Ivanovitch's amusement was not to last much longer, however.

In the first faint blueing of the night to dawn Tom awoke with a powerful need to visit the bushes, and, slipping from his bedroll and pulling on his boots and jacket as quietly as he could, he rolled from under the wagon he shared with Pickering. Nobody else was up as yet, not even Ivanovitch. (The other men often praised Ivanovitch's bunkmate, Dobson, as saintly in his patience for being able to put up with Ivanovitch's notional ways, including his nightly inspection of the ground they would sleep on. Sometimes he even swept the ground in his desire to avoid insects, and he always shook his blankets violently, both before rolling them up in the morning and before laying them out at night.) The day-foraging animals had not yet awoken, the night-foraging animals seemed all to have gone to bed, and the sentries who were posted were lurking silent and unseen as Tom picked his way carefully to the bushes which had been designated for personal needs.

On his way back he heard a slight creaking and a click. Someone moving in the Phipps carriage, perhaps. And as Phipps and his attendants slept inside the carriage, which had springs, it could have been someone rolling over.

But in the next moment that was driven from his mind as a muffled yelp came to his ears, and then a bundle of blankets rolled from under one of the wagons. Someone struggled free, slapping at himself and dancing upon his blankets in his stocking feet - by his unintelligible cursing announcing himself as Ivanovitch. As the other men began to wake and roll out from under their wagons, and the Phipps coach door flew open, a lanthorn shining forth from there, Ivanovitch now dashed off in only his shirt and long underwear, out of the camp-site!

Despite his sympathy for Ivanovitch's plight - for he felt certain that he knew exactly what had happened to the poor man as Tom's brother, Joe, had played a prank upon Tom, at one time, which had produced similar results - Tom could not help joining in the general laughter which began to emerge as he men awoke enough to realize what had happened.

"Here, Tom," called Dobson, rummaging under the tarpauline, "He'll need some fresh clothes I imagine. You're the only one dressed - take him these."

"Certainly. But, are those his boots?" Tom asked, setting the clothes aside for a moment.

Dobson indicated they were, and Tom poked up the fire and held the boots in the smoke for a moment.

"I don't think he'll care much how they smell," Dobson commented.

Tom hit the boots together, and the fire sparked as a shower of bugs fell into it. "If this prankster is anything like my brother, well, when he did this to me he put the bibbets in everything I might reach for. Could you shake his jacket out over the smoke, too?"

"Good thinking, boy," Dobson grunted, as he pulled his own (thankfully, insect free) boots on.

Tom set off into the dark brush in the direction Ivanovitch had taken, toward the small stream which ran nearby.

He found the man picking his way back to camp, wet and shivering.

"I shall flay our prankster alive, see if I don't!" Ivanovitch muttered as he yanked off his wet shirt and pulled on dry clothes. "This sort of thing is the product of a deranged mind! Mark me! It must be that Brown. He thinks all this is extremely funny. Have you seen how he laughs when these misfortunes strike? He's a sick, sick man."

"You laughed, too, every other time. Besides, it can't be Brown. I know I saw him sound asleep. He was the only person near the fire."

"Perhaps so. Yes, I think I recall leaping over him. Still, he may just have rolled back in, quickly."

As they had spoken he had finished donning his dry clothes. He laid the wet shirt across a bush, in hopes, he said, that it might at least dry a bit before morning, and they started back toward the fire. He peered narrowly at Brown, who grinned up at him in great (and, Tom had to admit, seemingly malicious) amusement. Ivanovitch scowled all the more, and turned back to Tom.

"But you were up, Lapierre; you saw no-one else about?"

"No, nobody," Tom responded, then thought of the noises he had heard from the Phipps coach. Still, he had not actually seen anyone, and casting suspicions on Lord Ethan or his men without very good cause seemed a bad idea.

"You were up, Lapierre?" Brown interrupted. "That's funny. You were also the first one up the morning Brackenstall found the mud in his boots."

He had dropped the comment in a studiedly casual manner, and only the three of them and two other men heard it. Still, by the end of the day murmurs were going around and the other men were looking at Tom oddly.

The day had been long and, if possible, even more difficult than ascending the mountain range had been, in it's way. They had been travelling downhill most of the day and Tom was required to lean on the brake constantly to help keep the cart from pushing the mules down the mountain. Tom was exhausted in every bone in a quite different way from when he had to shovel gravel much of the day - this was a stiffness induced by having had to tense all his muscles and hold nearly the same pose for a good deal of the time they were moving. He had a hard time making himself comfortable in his bedroll that evening, and he found himself waking repeatedly during the night.

At one point in the very dead of the night he suddenly found himself wide awake with no idea what had wakened him. Listening, he though he heard someone moving, stealthily. Could this be the same person who had performed the pranks and become known as the poltergeist? His heart beat hard against his ribs. Perhaps there was a real poltergeist, and he was courting death to interfere with it! But yet he quietly rolled himself out from his bed, because he found he had to know. Brown had cast aspersions on his character by implying that it could have been Tom himself who was pulling these pranks, and he dearly wanted a chance to redeem his good name.

Tom carefully found his way through the camp by the faint glimmer of the banked fires, hoping to observe the man, whoever it might be. He could see someone up ahead, moving slowly through the brush, a whiter patch in the darkness. He lost the figure as the man moved into a space between the bushes, but could still hear him up ahead. Tom entered the pitch black brush carefully, moving slowly and trying to be as stealthy as possible in the spaces which were not quite yet a trail. He was listening hard for the movements of the man up ahead, so when the shriek rang out it made him jump and freeze, his heart pounding.

Now the man was crashing back in an obvious panic, but lost his way slightly in the brush and somehow missed actually running into Tom. Now people were waking in the camp and calling out, and the man in the wood heard them and altered his course again. Several people lit lanterns, Tom could see the lights flickering through the screen of leaves, and as soon as the man burst from the brush the lights converged upon him. Tom picked his way back, but thought it more prudent to angle himself a little so as to emerge to one side of the crowd, hoping to step from the bushes unnoticed. He was not, however, successful in this, as Brown, hanging back on the edges of the crowd and peering around suspiciously, spotted him.

It was Farley in the midst of the circle, stammering about a ghost in the woods.

"Tom, is that you?" Brown called out loudly. "You were out in the same area as Farley? Did you see anything?"

The buzz of conversation ceased as all eyes turned upon Tom. A moment of silence, and then a roar emerged from somewhere amongst the crowd, and Brackenstall burst through.

"Lapierre, I've had enough of this! Youthful enthusiasm be damned, I cannot allow you to keep harassing the men this way and distracting them from their work! Carleton, cut a switch for me, I'll see to this myself!"

There was little sleep left for anyone that night, least of all Tom, and he could hardly bear sitting on the wagon seat the next day. Pickering avoided his eyes as though embarrassed, which reaction seemed to be the norm among most of the men. Brown was the only one who grinned at him, and it was not a friendly smile. Ivanovitch looked downright sorrowful, and that afternoon when the caravan had stopped for a few minutes rest after another backbreaking session of mud-pit filling, Tom could have sworn that Phipps stolen glances were full of anger. What he, Tom, could have done to personally anger the young lord he could not imagine, though perhaps the dour Lord Ethan particularly disliked pranksters.

Although no-one spoke to him directly, that evening Brown and another man stopped nearby Tom, conversing in a loud enough tone that Tom could not avoid hearing, discussing what the men had later found at the site of Farley's apparent ghost - it seems the man had been frightened by a shirt which had been hung to dry on a bramble bush.

"But the really odd thing, you know," Brown said, casting a sly glance toward Tom as though daring him to speak, "Was that it was Ivanovitch's shirt, the one he'd pulled off, wet, at our camp-site the night before! He has no explanation as to how it followed us, as he was certain he had hung it to dry and forgotten about it in the morning. And only he would have known where he left it. Well, perhaps there's one other person who would have known."


	6. Swept Away!

The glimmer of the Shining River in the distance marked the beginning of the end of the first part of their journey. After crossing the Shining River they would cross the Hensteeth mountain range, and from there they would descend to the much larger River Hebron, upon which the town of Abernetty, which was their goal, lay. Tom felt a certain relief, as it reminded him that, someday, there would be an end to this trip, and to his time with these men whom he had considered friends and who now so looked down upon him as a prankster and a fool. Still, there would be days of trading and delivering items which had been particularly ordered, and Brackenstall would need to refill the carts with more goods to bring back. It would be all the summer gone, nearly, before they would return to Victoria City, and he felt quite dejected at this thought, as the carts worked their way down the increasingly shallow switchbacks to the bottom of the valley. He wanted desperately to be home amongst his family and his friends, who knew him for a solid and dependable person and would not have turned on him with so little evidence.

When they had capped the mountain range they had seen, in the far distance, the Shining River meandering down the centre of the valley like a bright serpent, a strip of treeless flood plain to either side which someone had said looked as though it would be perfect farming country, and a shame it was mostly unused - the ferryman had planted only a small area. This time of year the water was still somewhat high and spilled from the banks in some places and, although the majority of the vegetation was still brown from the winter, there was more green than they had yet seen on their journey and the impression of much more soon to come - a sort of green-gold haze that hung about the grasses - an impression produced by the many new, pale shoots trying to find their way up through the dead vegetation from previous years.

They rode down that last foothill of the Governor's Range on a glorious morning with the river living up to it's name, glittering through the trees. Emerging from the trees, the track wandered and wound across a broad swath of flat grassland, which obviously had been flooded not long before when the river had been only a little higher. By the river, clearly visible as soon as they left the trees, was the ferryman's hut of logs which sat with it's back wall to the upstream, the better to stand against flooding. A few chickens and a pig were pecking and rooting within a light, moveable enclosure, newly deposited topsoil had been turned up in rows for a kitchen garden, and all in all it looked as though the ferryman had been quite busy repairing all the damages of the flood. As they approached the hut the ferryman himself emerged, a grey and dour man, with shoulders which looked far too large for the rest of his narrow body. He and Brackenstall entered into some haggling before he took a few of Brackenstall's coins and several sheets of glass that would go to fill gaps in his windows which were currently covered by oiled paper, having lost their panes despite being small and high and having heavy shutters (which, with their swinging windows, stood open at the moment to let in the fresh spring air). Lastly he took a few 'honest potatoes,' because, as he said, a man could only eat about so much rice before he longed for something homelike. Rice grew bountifully along the river - a thriving field of jade green stood just downstream from his hut - but he said he could 'not grow a single potato to save his soul.'

The ferry was a raft with two sturdy wooden rails on either side, attached, by means of two ropes, to a single long cable which was secured on each bank of the river, and propelled by means of a single oar, easily the largest oar Tom had ever seen. Because this raft was built (and rebuilt nearly every year, as they were often lost to the floods) and moved by only the one man it could not be overly large. Consequently a wagon, without it's team, or a few horses or mules, was all that could be safely carried across the waters at one go.

The upper surface of the raft had been made to look and sound as solid as it was possible to make it, with layered matting of grasses atop it, and Tom helped to hobble and blinder the horses and wrap their hooves in rags to further muffle the ring of hooves, yet still it was difficult to persuade the beasts to step aboard the swaying craft. Only three would fit, safely, and it took two trips for Brackenstall, Ivanovitch and four of the other outriders to reach the opposite bank. As this was being done the wagon men were unhitching and rubbing down the mules, giving them a bit of grain or talking to them, trying to keep them distracted from the impending raft trip. However, most of the mules still managed to observe the horses who had gone before them, and knew what would be asked of them. Being mules they lost no time in letting their handlers know that they were considerably opposed to this prospect. Brackenstall was acquainted of old with this behaviour and had given orders in advance of his crossing that the carts be brought across first, pulled by the men, and then they could take their time to argue with the mules. The ones which could be cajoled aboard the raft would be, and the more stubborn animals would need to swim across, tied to the raft. "Otherwise we could be here all night," he said, "Mules being mules." It was whispered among the men that the only reason he tried to get some of the mules aboard the raft was that he had lost several, one year, sucked under either by the current or by some monster below the water.

Dobson and Carleton assisted Pickering and Tom in bullying their wagon through the soft mud of the river's edge and thence onto the raft, where Tom carefully chocked a wedge of wood beneath each wheel such that it could not roll either forward or back until these wedges should be removed.

Barely had Tom stood from setting the last chock when all Pandaemonium seemed to break loose upon the quiet valley. Calls and wild screams rang out from the edge of the wood, and men - seeming a scattering, at first, because they came from such divergent points - came forth from the trees, running hard across the grass at the caravaners!

The men of the caravan were not to be caught so flat footed as you might imagine, however. It was true that half of their outriders, the men hired especially to repel bandit attacks, were already on the far side of the river, but the other five mounted men were armed and alert, and the wagon drivers were quick to leap to their guns, which they had left upon their racks on the wagons, high above the mud of the river banks.

Focused as Tom was upon choosing an oncoming man and taking careful aim, he hardly realized that the young Lord Ethan and his man, Mr. George, were not taking up stances of defense. In fact, Mr. George was running pell-mell for the ferryboat, dragging young Phipps behind him, and shouting to Brown and Dobson that they must accompany him.

"You too, Pickering! We must defend the landing! My Lord, onto the ferry - someone must take it across so that Brackenstall and the others can get back to help us. Tom, take him across for me; that dog of a ferryman has disappeared."

Indeed, the shutters of the log hut were now closed tight - the ferryman had apparently taken shelter from the human storm outside and meant to ride it out.

All the while he talked George pushed the young Lord gently but firmly, and now he snapped the rope from it's mooring and cast it aboard. "Go! Return with help!" He pushed the raft off with his foot, trying to give them a head start.

Dobson cried out and staggered, then fell, and Carleton was already closely engaged with one of the swiftest footed of their attackers, blocking a sword with his gun and cursing loudly.

Tom handed his gun to Phipps, hoping that he, too, had been taught to shoot by Mr. George, and turned to the oar, awkwardly lifting it from the deck and settling it into it's crotch in the railing. He had done a certain amount of sculling in smaller boats and understood how the oar had to be rolled to angle the blade differently at each end of the stroke, but the much greater size of this oar made it unwieldy and difficult to handle, and he was glad of George's push and the current helping the raft get a quick start toward the middle of the river and away from the fighting.

The smaller boy had seemed almost in a trance until the gun touched his hand, but then he leaped atop the seat of the wagon quite nimbly and took up a shooting stance as though he knew what he were doing. He was sheltered by the wagon and could rest his gun atop it, and he cracked off a shot quickly and to good effect, dropping a man with a gun who had just taken aim.

Tom pulled hard, the river looking much wider than it had on his previous trips. Phipps was reloading quickly, but another man had arrived to take the place of the one he had dropped and was taking aim. Perhaps the only thing that saved Tom at this moment was that he had forgotten about the strong current and begun a backstroke, which combined with force of the current and pulled the rear of the raft hard against it's restraining cable, managing to twist that end of the raft to the downstream for a moment before the cable brought it back, with the result that the bullet plunked into the grass matting beneath the cart. Phipps had reloaded and got off another shot, and Tom yanked the oar from the water and began to row rather than scull, but his end of the raft was now swinging downstream despite his efforts against the current. It took him a moment before he placed what the problem was: the cable which had stretched across the river had disappeared. Upon the bank which they had just left a man brandished a cutlass at Tom, seemingly grinning with delight at their predicament. He had cut the rope on his end. Without the guidance of the cable the ferry was being swept downstream, and, because of it's oblong shape, it spun broadside to the bank as it went, putting the bulk of the wagon between Tom and the fighting, to Tom's initial relief. He realized, as another man snapped off a shot at them, that Phipps was perched high on the seat of the wagon and was now completely unprotected.

On the other bank, Brackenstall waved his arms, cursing or giving orders, and the five outriders - Ivanovitch evident at the front as the tallest and leanest of the group - ran along the embankment, downstream, trying to catch up with the raft which was now rapidly moving away.

Tom angled the oar, trying to find some way to catch the current such as to move them to the opposite bank, and it seemed that he was making some headway. They might soon rejoin Ivanovitch and the others, and the questions of what to do next would be in Brackenstall's hands.

It was just as he glanced back, curious what was going on with the battle on the shore they had lately quit, that a great jolt took him off his feet and nearly off of the raft, as Phipps shrieked. They had, of course, hit a submerged sand bar and rebounded from it, but it was only later that he realized this. Now he clawed for purchase on the grass matting. As he pulled himself back aboard the raft, his legs soaked, Tom spied the end of the oar sliding off the raft into the water.

The men upon either bank grew relentlessly smaller as Tom, sprawled across the surface of the raft, watched, unable to do anything about it. The scene of the battle was soon lost from view as the raft rounded a curve in the river and only then did he try to stand. Of Phipps there was no sign.

Tom stepped round the cart, keeping a hold on it as much from a fear of what he might find as because he was as yet unsteady on his legs with the constantly shifting surface of the raft, much different here in faster water and with no tether. Had the smaller boy been thrown overboard by the impact? But no, there he was, sensibly having taken cover in the footwell.

"I think it would be safe to get up, now," he said as he approached the seat.

But Phipps did not move, and Tom could now see a dark puddle beneath him.


	7. On the River

Lord Ethan was lying in a crumpled heap in the foot well, face down in his own blood and a ghastlier grey than he had been at the start of the trip, before the sun had begun to darken his complexion, and the rifle hung half out of the foot well, looking about to fall. Dread washed over Tom. What if the young lord were dead? He hardly dared check for a pulse for fear of proving this fear true; Phipps was strange and annoying, but Tom certainly didn't wish him dead. For Tom to have failed so soon in the charge which Mr. George had left him, it was hardly to be born.

He leaned in close and bent to lightly touch the other boy's slender neck, and it was not until he felt a pulse that he sighed and realized he had been holding his breath. He took the gun up from where it had fallen, clicked the safety on, and replaced it in its rack and then he carefully - and clumsily, for it was difficult in a space that was meant only for two or three people's feet - rolled the boy over to have a look at the wound.

There was a surprising amount of blood. The boy's left arm was sopping and now that Tom had rolled him Phipps's jacket was well covered and even his trousers had become stained. A ragged hole through both the jacket and shirt sleeve showed where the bullet had scored through, and there was a valley cut in Phipps's arm which appeared as long and deep as a man's finger, from which blood was freely flowing. Fighting a wave of dizziness Tom reminded himself that his mother had always told him that wounds which bled well had less chance of becoming infected. Still, if the boy was unconscious it could be because he had lost too much blood. Or perhaps he had hit his head when he had fallen. Tom hoped it was not the latter.

Tom did not have a clear idea of how to treat a severe wound, having never had the bad luck to deal with one before. He wracked his brain desperately for a few moments. Hadn't he heard something about tying something tightly around the affected limb to slow the bleeding? That would give him more time to bandage it properly. Tie it with what? A belt might do. As he reached for his own belt he realized how much blood he already had on his hands and he stopped for a moment in dismay. Nothing for it at the moment, though, he could not waste time while Phipps lost more blood, so he pulled his belt off quickly, and cinched it tight around Phipps's upper arm, then he quickly rinsed his hands in the river, pulled his oilcloth overcoat from under the wagon tarpaulin and put it on to protect his own clothing. He'd hate to think what his mother would say of his staining his new suit with blood, although it was already looking much less new after several weeks of hard work.

He scooped river water in his hands and tried to spill it over the wound, thinning all the blood and spreading the mess even further, and to his dismay the ragged edges of the shirt washed into the wound rather than away. Tom hissed at himself in annoyance. He really didn't know what else he had expected, that had been rather foolish; there was nothing else for it, he needed to cut away the sleeve of Phipps's finely made jacket and shirt. He had to remind himself that they already had a ragged hole and severe blood staining, that they would be unlikely to be easily repaired. He steeled his resolve and used his belt knife to hack away at them. As he did so he realized that he could still use the hacked off sleeves and the ruined shirt, for Phipps's shirt was much cleaner than his own, which he had been thinking he would have to use, and of a higher thread count. This made him feel better about the necessity, as it was in his raising to never waste any bit of cloth that still had life in it. He rinsed the shirt sleeve over the side of the raft and wrung it out over the wound, then dabbed at the wound somewhat half-heartedly, grateful that the bullet had but scored and continued on. He would not have enjoyed having to dig in the wound looking for the bullet.

As he worked, Lord Ethan's eyelids fluttered, and he whimpered and moved restlessly. As he would with a small child or a mule, Tom muttered soothing noises and meaningless words - "There, there, you'll be fine" - this seemed to calm the boy.

"Your shirt is already ruined, I'm going to cut a strip off it for bandages," he murmured, but the boy seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness again, which Tom took as an implicit acquiescence. He undid the jacket and waistcoat, untucked the boy's shirt and unbuttoned it, and cut a strip from the collar to the bottom hem, which he folded into a pad. However, he was finding working in the foot well of the wagon to be exceptionally difficult, twisting and stretching to try to reach as he cut the shirt, so now he lifted the boy down from the foot well and laid him out on the grass matting of the raft's surface in order that he might straighten the boy's limbs and make him more comfortable as well as more easily work on the wound. He then cut two more strips of narrower width from the opposite side of the shirt for ties.

Once the arm was bandaged, and he had assured himself that the bandages were snug but not too tight, Tom released the tourniquet from Phipps's upper arm and reclaimed his belt, and chaffed the other boy's forearm and hand to assure himself that blood was moving in the limb. The hand was cold at first, but soon seemed warm again, and the bandage was not immediately soaked through, so he thought he may have done a passable job. The young lord had not regained consciousness, however, so Tom decided it might be best to continue to clean him up and to make for him a more comfortable bed where he could be out of the sunlight, which he was afraid might dehydrate and burn an unconscious person.

He unhooked the tarpaulin at the back of the wagon and looked around at what was available. Several bolts of fine cloth - velvets in rich, dark colours and cottons in bright prints - were rolled up near the back of the wagon, which had been very nice on the nights he and Pickering had slept under the tarpaulin to avoid rain. And there, tucked to one side, just where it always had been, was Pickering's bedroll. Somehow it surprised him, that the bedroll should still be here although the man himself was miles away - perhaps dead. Poor fellow. So calm and focused on his work, and so simple and easily confused. If he were lying dead Tom could imagine that his face would not look angry, merely baffled. Yet, it was almost certain that, whether he were dead or alive at this moment, Pickering would likely never see this bedroll again, nor, if he were to be asked, would he object to it being used by someone who needed it. He took it up, and spread it beneath the cart just as Pickering would have if they had been camping along the road on a normal night. He checked the chocks on the wheels to make sure they were still firm, kicking one a bit tighter - he did not want the wagon to roll while the other boy slept beneath it, and the chances of things working loose were much better with the river tilting the raft constantly, if slightly, this way and that.

It was well that Tom was quite familiar with removing clothing from unconscious bodies, from having put many a small, sleeping child to bed. He cut the jacket without compunction at this point, having consigned it in his mind to not being clothing any more, although he did wish that he had a pair of scissors, as the knife was unwieldy. Boots and the only slightly blood stained trousers were managed without a great deal of trouble. The waistcoat, surprisingly, looked as though it might be salvageable, and provided a bit of a challenge, as the boy's shoulders were well formed and a little broader than Tom had expected of the boy's generally slender build, although the rest of his body looked much like a small child's - with rounded, soft limbs unaccustomed to work. Nothing like the narrow shoulders and wiry, tough limbs Tom was used to seeing in boys his own age in his neighbourhood, where they had all grown up on hard work and Tom's family was unusual for the quality, if not great quantity, of nutritious food his mother had managed to supply.

After the waistcoat the shirt was very easy; as it was half gone already Tom slashed it without compunction and tore the rag in half, electing the cleaner half his drying cloth. Cold river water made the boy mutter and twitch, yet still he did not seem inclined to truly regain consciousness, so Tom tucked him into the bed beneath the wagon, and turned his attention to cleaning up the rest of the mess.

The waistcoat and trousers he tied by a string to a trailing corner of the raft in order to get the small amount of blood out of them by soaking in the river. It would not be as good as dragging behind the sailing ship, as his father had told them they did when at sea, but it would help. The jacket he used first to dab the blood off of his own oilskin coat and then (with repeated rinses in the river) to mop up the blood in the foot well of the wagon, as flies were beginning to gather. He was able to remove very little of the blood from the grass matting where he had bandaged Phipps - the grass had absorbed the blood and the stain would have to remain. He wondered if it might not have been a better plan to have wrapped Phipps in his oilcloth coat rather than putting it on himself; perhaps he mightn't have spread the blood so far? Or he might then have covered his oilcloth on both sides and still got a lot on his own clothes and the matting, there was no way to know. So he gave up on the grass matt and took the bloody clothes - rags, now - and tied them, also, by a string to the other back corner of the raft.

He was exhausted to the point of trembling, by this time, and sat down with his back to the wheel to think what he could do next. The banks of the river slipped inexorably past, which came almost as a surprise, he had been so taken up with dealing with Phipps's wound. They had certainly floated miles downstream by now, and every turn of the river had taken them further from the possibility of rejoining what remained of the caravan; he was not even sure of the general direction he might go if he were to take to the shore at this point. Almost certainly Brackenstall and Ivanovitch would decide to take the few horses and men they had left and get to Abernetty as quickly as they could, as they now had no supplies, not even bedrolls, and very little ammunition.

The sun was sliding far down the end of the sky, and they were often in the shadow of the hills as the raft moved along, with a consequent cooling of the air, but Tom felt cold even beyond that. It had suddenly come to him that he was alone in a way which he, a city-raised boy who had grown up in the bosom of a large family, had never before experienced. He was alone on a small raft on a swift river with an unconscious companion. He looked around at the dark under the trees and he shivered. He had grown used and even fond of trees and wild places during the past few weeks and in his journey the summer before, but he had always been in the company of others, a group which had a destination, supplies, and expertise. All his previous life and experience was in dealing with the crowded streets of Sandwell neighbourhood. At that moment the raft gave a quick lurch, tilting sharply so that the corner nearly went under the water. Only the once it bobbed, and then spun slowly and went on as though nothing had happened.

Tom sat for several minutes looking at the corner which had so misbehaved as though he might catch it acting up again if he watched closely, and then he crawled cautiously toward the edge and stretched to reach the string which floated in the river water.

The rags of Phipps's jacket and shirt which had been tied to it were gone, the string having been snapped.

He dropped the string and sat back to his wagon wheel, looking at the dark water all around for any ripple that might indicate anything moving beneath it, and found many. So many, he decided, that they probably indicated nothing but eddies in the current of the river.

"Something on the bottom - rocks or something - might have caught it," he told himself, and then he took the gun down and loaded it again with only slightly shaking hands and laid it across his knees while he sat and thought about what needed to be done next, for work was what he knew, and keeping his mind occupied was the best remedy for worries. He realized then that he was thirsty, and immediately upon realizing that he knew he was hungry as well. "I'm sure the young lord needs sustenance, also, with the injury and all."

This line of thought bolstered him and he stood, though he found a powerful desire to keep his back against the wagon. He knew that this was completely foolish, and he forced himself to turn and reach beneath the seat for the jug of cold tea, though the skin of his back crawled at doing it. The jug was just where he had left it that morning, in it's spot next to the rations box.

Turning his back again toward the wagon, Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly and was glad that the young lord was not awake to see his foolishness. He sank back down to sit, uncorked the jug, and took a sip of the tea. He was indeed very thirsty, and there wasn't much left, but they were surrounded by water. For now he would give Phipps the last of the good tea, and when it was done he would fill the jug with river water, though he quailed at the thought of sticking his hand into the water at the moment.

He moved to kneel by Lord Ethan's shoulders.

"Sir?" He wasn't even sure if it was correct to call a boy 'sir,' yet he assumed it would do, and he would feel odd calling him 'Master Ethan,' as Mr. George had usually done, because it would involve using his first name, and he just wasn't sure he was allowed. "Sir, wake up."

"What?" The young lord's voice was as crisp as though he had been merely closing his eyes, not asleep at all, though his next words belied that. "What's happened?"

"Have a little cold tea."

The boy frowned, puzzled. "LaPierre?"

"Yes, sir. Tom LaPierre."

There was a pause, and then Lord Ethan struggled to sit up, cursed, and fell back.

"Your arm's not right. Let me help you." Tom put down the rifle and jug, slid an arm under the smaller boy's shoulders, and levered him to a seated position, grateful that the clearance of the wagon, designed for the worst roads, allowed that.

"Thank you. J---- G--. I was shot, wasn't I?"

"You were."

"Bandits."

"Yes."

"I'll take that drink." He sipped from the jug, drew a long draught, lowered it, wiped his mouth, and asked, "Do we have anything besides tea?"

"I don't know."

"Something a bit stronger might be welcome."

His tone was strained, as though his inclination were to be a bit peevish, but he was perhaps too worn and confused, and he was trying to cover it all with a feeble sort of joking.

"I haven't anything at the moment," Tom said. He wasn't sure exactly what might be in the cart.

"I guess I shall have to make do."

"Would you like something to eat? We have the trail rations - nuts, and dried fruits and meats."

"I don't think I can manage it at the moment. I'm a little dizzy, nauseous... something. I think perhaps I should go back to sleep." Phipps tried to lie back down using only his good arm, lost his balance somewhat just at the end, thumped down the last few inches and cursed roundly again, then subsided into quiet.

"Don't you think you could try to eat just a little something? It might make you feel better."

"And it might not! Let me die in peace, not throwing up." Phipps turned his head away and fluffed the blankets up around his face as though to hide from the light.

Tom went silent, affronted. He re-corked the jug and sat back to the wheel again, looking out at the water. After a moment his stomach growled. He wasn't sure what the protocol was on eating in front of a lord when they refused food, but he couldn't afford to starve just because Phipps wouldn't eat.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm going to get a little food out. If you change your mind, just say."

A mumble which sounded like an assent was his only answer, so Tom got up and fetched himself a large handful of dried food, and sat against the wagon wheel to eat.

After a few minutes there was a quiet rustle of the blankets.

"LaPierre?" Phipps had rolled his head back toward Tom.

"Yes?"

"You bandaged my arm up?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Tom did not quite know how to respond to this. On the one hand the boy had just been so very rude that he almost wished for a moment that he hadn't bothered, but what else could anyone have expected him to do? He couldn't have watched the boy bleed to death. Tom settled for uncomfortably muttering, "I hope I did a good enough job, sir."

"I suppose you must have done as good a job as could be expected. Under the circumstances." He nodded once, then turned his head away again and closed his eyes.

And then there was silence, and soon Tom thought he heard even breathing over the constant ripple of the water, and he knew he was alone again. The sun was setting, now, and it would soon be dark. There would be much to be done in the morning and he was the only one who was going to do it, so he'd better get some sleep. He would have to bunk in on the other side of the wagon, where it was much closer to the side of the raft, but he trusted himself to not roll off the raft in his sleep - years of sleeping with his brothers had taught him to wake up before he rolled over. In only a few more minutes he had rolled out his blankets and half covered himself, fully clothed and with the rifle ready by his side, and though the water lapping only a few feet away was not conducive to his comfort he slipped off to sleep much more easily than he would have thought possible. It had been a long day and he was exhausted from many long days of hard work.

It seemed he had only closed his eyes for a moment, however, when he woke suddenly to another jolt of the raft. It was now pitch black and Tom stared wildly around, disoriented by the sense of motion and the sameness of the stars above and the glittering little wavelets sparkling with the off light of the two little moons. The wagon above was a solid black mass, and there he could see the black ragged fringe of trees at the edge of the river, which seemed to grow closer and then pull away as the raft spun, disturbed from it's usual path by whatever they had encountered. Something rose up or rushed toward them, blotting out the stars - a mass of twisted tentacles, black and reaching! He snatched up the rifle and opened fire without thinking of aim - the thing was far too close for that to matter - and was blinded by the flash of the shot in the dark. The roar of the gun woke Phipps who, by the time Tom bothered to listen to him, had settled from his initial shout to a really good cursing streak, the gist of which seemed to be that he thought Tom had been setting off fireworks as a prank and that was a rude thing to do when some people might have tests in the morning. Tom was still blinking red spots out of his eyes and rubbing the arm which had taken the kick of the gun at a rather poor angle, when Phipps suddenly remembered where he was and moved on, without taking a breath, to asking what (with expletives) Tom had been shooting at.

"I- I don't know. I thought it was something coming up out of the water. It had... tentacles."

"Tentacles?" Phipps was sitting up and looking around. "What about branches or roots? Was it a dead tree? Like that one upstream?"

Tom peered and blinked, and was able to make out what Phipps indicated, against the glitter of the river; a tree, on it's side, somehow snagged, its great spread of roots now reaching high above the water. Of course that was what it had been. Tom felt a complete idiot. There must be many dead trees in the water at this time of year, the spring rains having washed them downstream.

"Er. It may have been."

Lord Ethan sighed in an exaggeratedly exasperated manner and fell back to the deck. "Ow! D--- it, I think I pulled a muscle in my stomach, now. I'm going back to sleep."

And, although he lay for a few minutes staring out into the dark, his face burning with embarrassment, Tom eventually fell back into a deep sleep as well.


	8. In Which Phipps is Hot and Tom is Bothered

Rocked gently by the motion of the river and sedated by the effective somnolent of exhaustion, Tom rolled over a short time before first light, some part of him expecting Ivanovitch's early morning clattering or the calls of birds and the native flying and climbing life of the forest, but when none of those came (the running water masking the animal noises) he continued to sleep soundly until the sun rose high over the surrounding hills and its rays struck and shattered on the water and glinted in dancing red spots through his eyelids. He woke surprised that he had slept so late. He lay for a few moments wondering if he were ill and the rocking were something inside his head, then he recollected himself and realized where he was and also that he was very hungry. There were some drawbacks to not having anyone around to wake him and make him work, as that meant there was also no cook preparing the usual camp breakfast which he had become used to. He raised his head and looked around.

Phipps lay sprawled, half uncovered, hair rumpled and matted, skin flushed.

"Sir?"

A restless movement and whimpering moan were the only response, and this encouraged Tom to venture to twitch the blanket to more completely cover the boy, who was dressed only in his underthings and might catch a chill. His hand hovered a moment, and then Tom lightly touched the damp brow. Phipps was burning up with fever. Tom rolled somewhat stiffly from his bedding and wobbled to his feet. The wound needed to be cleaned and re-dressed. The boy's fever must be exceptionally high if he had kicked off the blanket in the cool morning air, and his temperature needed to be brought down as quickly as possible without shocking the boy's system. Tom wondered if perhaps he shouldn't have covered him up again, but left the blanket be for the moment.

He climbed up to the seat of the wagon, untied the tarpaulin and leaned in to rummage through the closely packed samples of Brackenstall's wares. Something white caught his eye, and touching it he was certain immediately that it would be the right sort of cloth for bandages. He shook it out: a christening dress. He flipped the hemline and touched the delicately scrolled embroidered 'L' with his thumb, his chest tight as he thought of his mother and sisters in the sitting room at home, working half the night by candle light. Yet he paused only for the barest moment, and ripped the long garment decisively before he could change his mind. The boy needed the bandages.

And what for holding water and sponging from? One of the dinner bowls would do. They were identical, the standard bowl which the cook issued each man at the beginning of the trip and which each man was responsible for cleaning; metal bowls enamelled in various colours so that a man would not confuse his with his wagon-mate's. Tom reached for Pickering's, the blue one. He balled up a piece of the christening dress in the bowl and set it down beside Phipps, who had already kicked the blanket off again (Tom pulled it back over his waist again to offer the unconscious boy a bit of modesty), then rinsed and filled the drinking jug, poured water from it into the bowl, and set about uncovering the boy's wound.

It smelled bad and was oozing slightly, but bleeding very little, and he daubed at it carefully but quickly until it seemed clean enough. Phipps was in almost constant motion; small, fretful movements, so Tom decided to leave the wound uncovered for the moment and let it air, and for now he tossed out the water he had used, rinsed the bowl, and began to sponge the boy's brow in an attempt to lower his temperature. Phipps made a slight noise in his throat, a catch of the breath. Tom could see the pulse of blood in the veins of his neck and he recalled that anywhere the blood was near the surface was a good place to cool it, so he carefully touched the cloth to the boy's neck. That elicited a small whimper; perhaps it was too much of a variance in temperature. He changed his tactic immediately, and instead smoothed along down across the boy's chest in what he hoped was a soothing way and then moved on to the insides of Phipps's elbows and wrists. When the boy shivered he stopped and covered him up again. He seemed to be sleeping quietly, now. Tom re-bandaged the wound loosely so that air could circulate but dirt and flies would be kept out.

A handful of travel food was all he dared give himself, just enough to stave off hunger. He drank a good deal of water to make up for the lack of food, and meanwhile turned his mind to what else could be found to eat. He knew that there were a few sweets and delicacies in the wagon; small boxes of dried and sugared roots and fruits which grew only in Eugenia and of confections produced in Victoria City. These could possibly keep them going for a few days, but they would hardly be nourishing for the young lord.

No, they needed real food, and soon, if the boy was to heal. He could fish with a thread and bent needle (his mother had made sure he had a small sewing kit which was buttoned in to one of the inner pockets of his large coat), but even if he could catch something edible he needed fire to cook the fish, and how could he make a fire on the raft?

He could see the possibility of making a small fire on one corner if he could build up a hearth of stones and clay, or sand, to insulate the wood from the heat, but that could only be done if he could reach the shore to gather those materials.

He considered the trees, which continued slipping inexorably by. How far had the river washed them, now? There was no way for him to tell. They had continued rolling on all the night, and the river had turned and twisted while he was asleep. From where the sun now sat in the sky, not high in the east, he thought they might be travelling in the right direction for Abernetty if they were willing to leave the river at some point and hike through the trackless mountains to the South, but he did not know where he should leave the river nor could the Lord Phipps be expected to begin such a trek any time soon. Aside from the usual dangers of falling down ravines or starving (assuming the boy survived his present fever, Tom amended to himself) there were several species of large predator which had been identified in the wild lands. Going ashore for any length of time would be dangerous, therefore, and he resolved that all forays should be brief until Phipps was stronger.

But make some foray he must, otherwise fire, and food, were beyond him. He set to knocking the top board off one side of the wagon with the back of a small hand axe, but as his hammering commenced Phipps awoke with a shriek. Tom knelt and hushed the boy until he calmed a bit, though he was still wild-eyed.

"Have they followed us?"

"Who's that?" Tom asked.

"The men. Who killed everyone. My father won't give any ransom for me. They'll be angry when they find out."

"I haven't seen any sign of them following. Here, have a drink of water."

Phipps raised his upper body with his good arm, and gulped from the jug appreciatively, Tom holding it for him. He looked around again, as though expecting the raft to be surrounded by bandits, but said no more at the moment about them following. "Thank you. A little more?"

"As much as you like. It's good for you. Need to pee, yet?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Well, perhaps you're sweating it all out."

The boy lay back, still breathing hard, and closed his eyes, and it was only a moment before his breathing slowed and he was soundly asleep again.

He worked the board the rest of the way off by dint of twisting and pulling by hand, and then set to whittling it a little shape with his sheath knife, just a narrower and more smoothed area so that he could hang onto one end and not get splinters. Then he set it in the oarlock from where the steering oar had been lost. With some experimentation he learned how to angle the raft toward the bank, though it was hardly an exact science, and he despaired of being able to choose his landing spot carefully. When he came close enough, he pulled his makeshift oar in and began to reach after passing branches, hoping to loop them in to a place where the bank wasn't too steep. The first he missed, but the second he tried for he seized. It dragged him bodily back into the wagon, and with a crack the small branch came off in his hand - and he was glad it had. "It might have pulled you right off, you fool!" he thought to himself. "And then what sort of a pickle would you have been in? Hanging from a tree branch with the raft floating away from you!"

He paused for a few minutes to give Phipps another sponge bath, as he was growing restless again, and as he did this the raft went back to midstream again.

The next chance he got to grab at the trees he made sure his other hand had a firm grip on the wagon, and this time he nearly managed to hold it, but, though the branch bent and the raft nearly came to a stop the tugging never ceased. The current, he realized, had a good pull when it came to something the size of a raft. He let go and went to look in the wagon for a rope. This he weighted with an ornamentally wrought clothes iron for his next attempt.

Again he paused to cool Phipps's fever, and then he tied the end of the rope to a leading corner of the raft.

Once he had brought the raft back near the shore again he tossed the iron over a tree branch, and paid it out hand over hand so that it came taut gently so that neither the rope nor the branch would be likely to snap. Once the rope was at it's length and he thought the iron looked as though he would hold he began to loop the rope around the end of the railing along the side of the raft. The raft rotated, slowly, and came around closer to the bank, bumping it a little hard, but he continued pulling them slowly back against the current until he could reach the branch, grasp it, and tie another line to it. He untangled the end with the iron, untied the iron from the rope and then chose another limb to tie that rope to.

"Not all eggs in one basket that way, if the one limb breaks," he thought.

He took a break for another drink of water and, noting that Phipps was growing restless again, sat down to give him another sponging. After a moment he decided to wake the boy and try to convince him to drink more water. It took a little work, and the boy seemed perplexed as he came to consciousness, or possibly slightly annoyed by the intrusion on his sleep, but he drank the proffered water.

"Can you pee yet, sir?"

"What is your infatuation with the bodily processes?"

"It's only that you should, you know. If you don't take enough water in and let it out again your bladder might turn off. Or maybe it's your liver, I don't remember. Anyway, it's bad if you have a fever and don't drink and pee, I know that much."

"Kidneys, perhaps? Well, probably you're right, in essence. I'll drink a little more and think about it."

Tom felt a bit foolish. Of course it had been kidneys. "Could you eat?"

"Is there anything besides the nuts and berries?"

"There's a little dried meat, too."

"I'll try the nuts and berries. That seems easier. I suppose I need something." He sat up, legs folded under the blanket, and chewed a small hand-full, slowly, and then another, washing them down with copious amounts of water, and gazed out at the river, glancing at Tom occasionally from the corner of his eye. Tom put this odd, coy look down to embarrassment at being ill and needing tending.

Then for a moment Phipps stopped chewing and sat frozen, staring out across the river. He passed a hand over his forehead and eyes, swallowed, and took the water jug. "I thought for a moment I saw a little man over there on the other side of the river," he said, a little shakily. "It must have been some animal, but he looked for all the world as though he were walking on his hind feet and carrying something in his hands. Paws. Perhaps I'm hallucinating."

Tom squeezed some water from the rag in the bowl and offered it to him, and Phipps took it, mopping his brow and the back of his neck.

"Thank you. I think if you could help me up I might need to relieve myself, now."

Tom averted his eyes and took Phipps's thin hand and bony elbow to lift him up, and the boy moved weakly but under his own power to the other side of the wagon. Tom tucked a piece of dried meat into his mouth, and pulled out his sewing kit, chose a large and particularly rusty needle to bend, threaded it, and hooked a little of the dried meat upon it. When Phipps returned he was just pulling down a likely-looking branch to use as a rod.

"Fishing? I say, a good fish might do." It might have sounded something like enthusiasm if Phipps hadn't been so weak. He nearly collapsed to a sitting position, and pulled the blanket over his lap again. "But we have no way to cook it."

"I think I can build a fireplace. I need rocks. Do you think you would be all-right to take care of yourself while I found some? I could leave you the gun."

"Surely. I can sit and fish. But you take the gun in case you see game."

"I won't be able to carry the gun and the rocks. In fact..." he looked up at the bank, which was steep and tangled, "I won't be able to carry much with nothing to carry it in." He puzzled over this for barely a moment, however - there were several bolts of cloth in the wagon. He pulled one out and had a piece cut off and fashioned into a sling in two minutes.

Meanwhile, Phipps had laid down and closed his eyes again. Tom decided that, rather than wake the boy, who looked so exhausted and frail curled up on his good shoulder, he would make a small frame to hold his makeshift fishing pole and when he came back with his building materials he would drop the line in the water and keep half an eye on it while he made his fireplace. It was only a few minutes before he had puzzled out a contraption which would allow the 'pole' (rather short for a regular pole, but well suited to such an idea) to swivel and flip the other, weighted, end up when the line was pulled by a fish, but remain firmly lashed to it's frame all the while and attached to the edge of the raft.

As he took up his sling the boy began to twitch and moan again in his sleep. His fever had risen again, and Tom was reminded that he didn't dare leave the boy alone and asleep. He took up the bowl of water and mopped at the boy's arms, speaking to him softly until he woke, blinking.

"You need to stay awake, sir, to keep your fever down and to protect yourself. Here is the gun. It's loaded and ready. Don't shoot me. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, yes, of course." The boy looked bewildered, again, but took up the jug of water and managed to sip at it with one hand. "I'll stick my toes in the water, that will keep me cool."

Tom shuddered at the thought of water beasts, even if the one he thought he had seen had probably been a log - no-one yet knew what kinds of animals were hiding in all the corners of the world, especially in deep water. But perhaps it was shallow enough near the shore that there might not be any very large native life ready to eat Phipps's toes. "If you see anything, take your feet out immediately."

Phipps gave him an odd look, but all his looks were odd. "Of course."

Tom nodded, and found himself a few hand and foot holds in the brush and roots of the bank, and had shortly, though not without a few scratches, pulled himself up to the top and stood looking about into the forest. Every step would be a struggle through brush and fallen leaves. He looked back down at the raft. Phipps was looking after him, and waved, flashing white teeth in a quick smile.

It was only after he was seeking stones in earnest, a few minutes later, that he began to wonder if the particular odd look Phipps had given him was because his tone had perhaps not sounded deferential enough to match their divergent stations. He was doing his best, but he was not used to interacting with people not near him in class, and the boy's current incapacitation combined with his slight build was making it even more difficult because he was thinking of him as being much younger than himself. Just how old might Phipps be? He could possibly be older than Tom! What an odd thought! He resolved that he would try harder to be respectful; he didn't want to sound as though he thought himself above his station. And the boy needed some clothing. Certainly at the moment he wasn't feeling cold, but in the name of modesty if nothing else. Pickering's spare set of clothing would have to do, and there might be another shirt in the inventory, he thought he had seen one.

Soon he had a few stones - not enough by any means, but as many as he could carry - and he needed to return to the raft, where Phipps sat with toes in the water his blanket wrapped around his shoulders and across his lap. The younger boy had pulled in some small water animal that looked like a slimy wet sock filled with sand, and he looked a little discouraged, but Tom assured him that even if it wasn't an eating fish it might be used as bait. He cut it up with his sheath knife, found Pickering's clothes and set them down next to Phipps, saying nothing about the clothing or Phipps lack thereof, and climbed the banking again on another foray.

When he returned with more rocks the boy was dressed, with sleeves and trouser cuffs rolled up. Though far too small for Tom, the clothing was large on Phipps, and with his hair going frizzy he looked as though he were dressed up to play a tramp in a pantomime.

There was as yet no more result from the fishing pole, but soon after Tom began working on his fireplace (laying down a bed of large rocks and mortaring them with mud from the riverbank) Phipps, with a weak cry of delight, pulled in something which, though small, looked like the sort of fish that had been stocked in many rivers for sport, something which could be eaten and not poison a human or give them gas. Tom congratulated him, and strung it on the side of the wagon, and Phipps sat back to more fishing, seeming quite smug. Tom smiled to himself as he climbed the bank again for more rocks. It seemed the boy liked feeling a little useful.

As he had cleaned the forest in the immediate area of any rocks that suited his needs, this foray took him further from the raft than any previously had, but still the gunshot was quite loud enough to make him jump.


	9. Fire and Fish

The shot rang out against the hills for a time which felt like an age to Tom, in the moment of hearing and identifying the sound and knowing that he must immediately rejoin Phipps on the raft and then reminding his legs how to run. The sling, nearly full of rocks, banged hard against his thigh, feeling like a bruising impact after only a few dozen strides. He struggled to tear it off without stopping, but retained it in his grasp as he realized that it was possibly the best weapon he had available to him at the moment, the gun being with Phipps. His knife might do in a pinch, but he didn't want to get near enough to a lizard-bear or panther-wolf to use it. The threat he now ran toward, branches slapping his face and under brush tearing at his feet, could be either of those or any number of other dangers which he could not imagine. For all he knew that shot may not have come from Phipps's rifle at all - it may have been bandits which had followed them, or other wild men who had left the colony running from the noose or for their own reasons.

At this thought he slowed his pell-mell course a bit, trying to see ahead. He thought he must be near, though all these woods looked the same to him, and he drew closer to the bank. There, that was the limb he had used to pull himself up on, and directly below - he leaned out, trying to stay low amongst the brush - there was the raft.

Phipps lay quite still, curled against the wagon wheel, the gun lying nearby, and did not move as Tom climbed down. All else appeared as still as though the gunshot had never sounded, though his careful survey of the area noted the v-shaped ripples of some small animal swimming toward the opposite bank.

"Sir?" he ventured to call softly. When there was no response he tried again, a little louder. "Sir, it's me. LaPierre." He put his sack of rocks down quietly, nervous in the complete calm, so different from what he had expected to find, and knelt by the boy, touching his forehead hesitantly with the back of his hand - it was burning.

Phipps's eyes flew open wide and he drew a gasp. "The tentacles!" As he had regained consciousness his entire body had gone stiff with fear.

"Did you fire at something?"

"The poor rats!"

"You shot rats?" Though why he would have shot them if he felt sorry for them Tom was unsure.

But the boy was shaking his head. "No... the tentacles!"

"Here, let me get you a drink of water." The jug and cup were nearby and Phipps eagerly gulped down the water while Tom held it for him, supporting himself on his good elbow. He was clearly quite exhausted, and soon fell back with his eyes closed. Tom found the bowl again, filled it with fresh, cold water, and, wetting the rag, again drew it across Phipps's brow and patted his neck with it. Phipps's eyes fluttered open again and the water seemed to revive his senses a bit.

"What happened?" Tom asked, finally, struggling to sound as quietly unconcerned as though he hadn't spent frantic moments dashing through the forest, as though his breathing had not just returned to its usual rate, hoping that calmness would help Phipps conquer the terror he still evinced.

"I hardly know," Phipps responded, slowly gathering himself. "I saw something floating down the river. Sometimes it looked like a dead tree and at other times it appeared as though it were moving, writhing... obscene! As it approached more nearly it appeared to be struggling with creatures who were attacking it. They looked at first like huge rats, and then at other moments these creatures appeared to me not as animals but as small people, who were not attacking so much as simply trying to save themselves. When one would break free, he was loath to leave his comrades, and would return to fight for the others. Perhaps this was why I felt that they were people. I was overcome with a sort of horror at the thought of these people losing their friends to violence..."

Phipps's voice trailed off, and Tom understood well that he would have said "...as we have." Whether all this were real or some hallucination or some strange misperception - animals playing with a dead tree, perhaps? - Phipps had interpreted it as a situation much akin to what he had recently experienced, and could not ignore it, or treat it as a passing entertainment.

"So you shot at the... thing? With the tentacles?"

"Yes. I took the first opportunity that I had, when it was nearest and there came a moment when all of the rat people appeared to be out of the way. And I must have hit it well, for it thrashed wildly for a moment, whipping the water into a froth, and then it was gone. And the little people... the creatures... were swimming away."

Tom pictured rats with waistcoats and watchfobs, as in some children's book, and couldn't suppress a smile. "Your fever is up."

"I didn't hallucinate this! It was real!"

"Well, sir..." He found himself at a loss for what to say, and paused with his mouth open, finally settling for, "Why don't you get some rest for the moment? I see you've caught us two more fine fish, and as soon as I get a fireplace built we'll have a good meal. You could sleep until then."

Phipps huffed, but closed his eyes, and was asleep within moments while Tom proceeded to assemble the walls of his intended fireplace. Inexplicable events aside, Tom still needed to eat.

Although he realized he had given Phipps the impression that he did not believe him, in fact either possibility seemed equally likely to Tom as he turned the reported events over in his mind while he worked. He had not heard of a tentacled thing that looked like a dead tree, but he himself had shot at something which had looked very much like that on the first night they were on the raft. (Only the evening before, he thought with a jolt. It seemed almost an age ago.) Rat people? Tom's formal education had consisted of basic numbers and letters and a fear of God, imparted by Mrs. Babbage and Father Cole - he had no reason to think that rat people were not a possibility.

Meanwhile there was the fireplace to be concerned with. The weight of the rocks, sand and mud which he felt necessary to insulate the wood properly from the fire was excessive, and now caused the entire raft to lean precariously so that the water lapped up to the back edge of his fireplace. He had to face the fact that this was no solution for the longer term, despite all his work - the raft could not safely continue to float down the river with this weight upon the corner. However, for the moment he decided to build the fire and cook the fish as best he could that they might eat them before they turned.

Tom wrapped the fish in a thick coating of clay from the river bank and cooked them in the embers of the fire, and by the time they were split to reveal their steaming and succulent centres they had been well seasoned by appetite, and he thought he had rarely smelled anything better. He woke Phipps again with no doubt that the boy would be as eager to tuck in as he himself was, and was therefore surprised at his response.

"What a disgusting smell. It turns my stomach!"

"Fevers often take a person's appetite," Tom responded. Although his traitorous fair skin had reddened with annoyance at the rudeness of the boy's comment, he tried to be conciliatory. "But unless the fever is high you should still try to eat at least a little. Especially someone as thin as you."

"I'm not thin. I'm svelte," Phipps pronounced, raising his chin.

"Whatever you may call it, you must eat or you'll be nothing, soon."

Grudgingly, the younger boy allowed Tom to help him to sit up and accepted a bowl of fish, which he picked at for a while. Eventually, however, he handed Tom the bowl, wordlessly, a substantial amount still in it, and sat back, seemingly exhausted.

Tom helped him back to his bedroll, and sat still for a few moments watching Phipps as he fell asleep, sorry to again be left alone even if Phipps were such a contrary companion. He sighed very quietly to himself, finished eating the young Lord's dinner, and addressed himself to washing the dishes and considering what to do next. His little fireplace would have to be abandoned, and he sighed in frustration at all the work which would need to be done over again on the bank. The rocks were too hot at the moment to take the fireplace apart, so even though he was quite unhappy with staying tied to the shore and all it's myriad possible dangers, he realized that they would have to do so or risk being swamped in the open stream with the raft so unbalanced. And the possible tentacle monster of the deep waters might be hoped to be less danger to them here near the bank, so perhaps it was for the best that they remain here for the night.

With this thought he resolved that he would worry no more about it for this evening. He therefore set himself to cleaning and reloading the gun in case they might need it again at a moment's notice, and laid himself fully clothed under the wagon with a corner of blanket over him, not even taking off his boots. He was determined to ignore the dark trees and simply try to be ready to wake at any odd noise, as he realized he could not remain awake for much longer.

Throughout the night he slept fitfully, awakening at every rustle of breeze, every snap of a twig. Most often he started up only to see all quiet, the only movement that regular sway of branches, and the green gleam of the small moon playing upon the water; twice the disturbance was Phipps whimpering and moaning with the fever. Tom filled the bowl with cold water and mopped at the boy's brow. Phipps clutched at him, mumbling unintelligibly and calling him by odd names, but Tom muttered soothing noises at him and eventually he slept quietly again.

The green moon was later replaced by the more ruddy glow of the larger moon just before the birds and other creatures began their morning cacophony. When that began Tom squinted his eyes shut and had a bit more sleep, which somehow seemed all the better despite all of the noises and the light. Eventually, however, he faced the fact that he needed to rise.

This day promised him more of the same challenges as the last, with the added disadvantage that he was feeling quite slow and dull from his restless night. There was the boy's wound to be washed and bandaged and more food to be found, and the fireplace to be built all over again.

He could avoid none of it, however, and so he began first by splashing water over his own head to clear his thoughts. Phipps complained of Tom's noise and rolled over back-to, then seemed to go directly back to sleep. At least he was quiet, and Tom thought, rather uncharitably, that if all he could do was complain even silence was better. Then his stomach rumbled and his thoughts turned longingly to porridge. He took a handful of the trail food and chewed it over, thoughtfully. It was nuts and berries, not cereals, but anything could be boiled. Hot food would do the boy good, if he could be made to eat it. If there were still that little kettle which had been in the cart - he was almost sure he had seen it, hiding near the fancy irons...

He threw himself into tearing the fireplace apart, cleared a space on the top of the bank above, reassembled the fireplace, found the kettle, and tossed two handfuls of the precious nuts and berries in, adding a little of the dried meat and a good deal of water, and set it to warm, then thought he probably should already have set his fishing line up in it's little holding frame as well.

Meanwhile Phipps grumbled and whined a bit, but he didn't seem to be in the throws of the sort of fitful mumbling and ranting which characterized fever, so Tom endeavoured to ignore him and think kind thoughts about how little restful sleep the boy must have had with his fever peaking as it had during the night.

It was only when he stopped for a moment during his work, while the porridge cooked on the bank above, that Tom began to wonder what time it might be, and missed the sun. The day had not really ever dawned, merely gotten lighter, but the sky was darkening again and it couldn't even be noon. This was not so unlike the sort of weather he had been used to all his life in the city, so he had given it little thought, but he remembered that on this side of the mountains storms might be sudden and violent. He thought of the river, whipped into a frenzy by wind, and began work on lashing the cart down and doubling the lines holding the raft to the bank.

Would it even be safe to be on the raft if the weather came down quite nasty? He thought perhaps it would not, but the only alternative would be to make some shelter of sorts near the fire on the bank above. He pulled out one of the bolts of cloth, the heaviest sort he could find, a dark blue velvet. Probably not the best thing for shedding water, but there was a great deal of it, perhaps he could make it do if he could layer it up well enough.

Loop after loop of the cloth went over a low tree branch, with rocks to hold the loops down where they touched the ground. It wasn't much of a shelter, certainly, but he did scrape the requisite small trench around it to drain off water, as the men in the caravan had taught him, and he thought that at least it might keep a little of the worst off.

When at last he paused in his flurry of activity he checked the porridge and decided to declare it done, and removed it from the fire.

The young lord grumbled at moving, complaining of his stiffness and how sore his shoulder was, and cursing while Tom bodily hauled him up the embankment by his good arm, but he appeared completely coherent, if cranky, and his temperature seemed much lower.

"Why do we have to do this?"

"I have breakfast for you."

"And why can't it be served on the raft?"

"Sir, you may not have noticed, but the weather looks as though it may be turning. I'm afraid a storm is coming, and it seemed it might be prudent to get off the water for the moment."

Phipps made no reply, but stood at the top of the bank cradling his injured arm in the good and blinked, swaying slightly, then he nodded. "Very well. This is to be our shelter, then?" He twitched his chin toward the makeshift tent, and, in response to Tom's affirmative, walked over and slowly settled himself in the doorway, stiff as an old man. When presented with the bowl of simmered trail food Phipps eyed it mistrustfully, tried the tiniest nibble, and pronounced it not only the most aesthetically unpleasing dish he had ever encountered but quite unpalatable besides.

Tom's sympathies, somewhat aroused by the boy's evident illness, were quite dashed by this rudeness, yet still he urged, "Do try to eat a little. It may not taste like much, but it's nourishing."

"If I throw it back up again it won't help at all," Phipps grumbled, but he managed a few more spoonfuls before he thrust the bowl away, insisting he couldn't choke down another bite, and curled up inside the makeshift tent.

Tom ate what he felt was his own share and set the rest of Phipps's share aside, hoping that in a little while the boy might decide that he were hungry after all. He didn't think it was really all that bad, considering what he'd had to work with and his own complete lack of knowledge about cookery.

There was nothing for it, though, he would have to forage and hope that he could find something, and now, while the boy was asleep, was probably the best time. After fetching the bedrolls from the raft and pushing them into the tent to the boy's muttered complaints, he took up the gun, and, as quietly as he could, moved off through the brush and along the bank, upstream.

Most of the vegetation had the shots of reddish colours in their leaves which he had always been told to avoid, and even among those which were the proper green shades which he had been told to look for in plants which would be easily digestible, none looked familiar. Possibly he would just have to try something. Perhaps if he only tried a little, it wouldn't make him very sick? He decided that there was nothing to be gained by not trying, so, when he saw some berries, he picked one and nibbled just half, wandering on and marking a few more plants that looked likely, but not wanting to try anything else before he found out what would happen with the first.

Within a half hour he knew he had made a mistake. As he wiped his mouth shakily with the back of his hand he reflected ruefully that all his hard work of the morning had been lost in only a few moments, and he decided that further experimentation should be suspended. Not only were his efforts so far fruitless, but the sky was now lowering in earnest and the threatening rumbles of thunder had been steadily louder. He was sure the rain would be arriving any moment, he could smell it in the air - he needed to get back to the tent and make sure everything was ship-shape before it came down.

He would keep his eyes open for something he recognized certainly was an edible plant, but for the moment they would fall back on the few things that were left on the raft. Most of these were sweets, though a few were dried fruits which only grew in the warmer Northern climes and were treasured in Abernetty, and he thought he had seen a jar of preserved fish, a particular favourite which was only to be found in salt water. One of the things his own father may have had a hand in supplying, for he was a fisherman, gone for months at a time on board ship. It would be months before Tom's father got the news that he was missing, presumed dead. He didn't know whether to be grateful for that fact. Perhaps he could arrive home before his father ever heard, and save him the grief. The little voice in the back of his mind whispered that they probably would never arrive home at all, but he squashed that voice firmly.

Not far from the camp fire he noticed the paw print of some animal in a muddy spot, and wondered vaguely that he hadn't noted it before, the marks of large claws being sharply defined, but decided it didn't signify as he probably had just been looking another direction when he walked by it. In that moment his reverie was interrupted by a crack of thunder, and the rain the rain came down. All thoughts of the print were driven out of his head in his pell-mell run for the makeshift shelter, shoving himself inside unceremoniously.

"You're wet!" Phipps yelped.

"Yes - " Tom stopped himself from voicing the sarcastic answer that had leapt at once to his lips and modified it to, "Sorry, sir."

"Is there no other place for you to be?"

"Not really."

"Then just stay on your own side would you? There's a good lad."

Tom tucked the gun against the wall and busied himself clipping the front of their tent together with clothes pins. It quickly became dark as the inside of a pocket, and the thrum of the rain in the trees was somewhat muffled, though they could still hear the crash of thunder clearly, and see the flashes of lightning through the cracks.

It took a very few minutes for the velvet to begin soaking through; Tom noticed it on his side just before Phipps cursed. From then on there were barely moments of quiet from Phipps. He subjected Tom to a continual stream of complaints as to his incompetence, his own bad luck, the very unkindness of the weather and the affront of it's raining on him.

Tom managed to bite his tongue for some time, but finally he could stand it no longer. He reached for the clothes pin holding the front closed, but, hitting the cloth clumsily with his arm, popped it off instead and the clothes pin went flying.

"What are you doing you idiot?"

"Leaving!" He had intended it to be stated coolly and levelly, but it came out a roar as he burst forth into the rain.

"You can't! What? Fine!" Phelps emerged from the tent, livid. "You needn't bother - you can stay with your benighted tent; I'll be leaving!" Phipps glared and then stamped off, quickly disappearing into the bushes.

Tom was aghast. The ridiculous little twit, couldn't he even allow Tom to be righteously angry? He had to top everything and make it somehow his own. Stupid little... Why, Tom should really let him wander in the rain until he fell off the riverbank and drowned, until he caught his death of fever, until he starved - no, he'd never live long enough to starve, the helpless little tantruming child; he wouldn't get far.

"Here, come back!"

Tom crashed into the under brush in the direction Phipps had gone, surprised at how faint the noises of the smaller boy's passage already sounded. But the wood was thick, here, and sight and sound were both severely impeded as well by the rain. He had gone barely twenty feet before he was almost upon Phipps, screened from him by only a little brush. The boy moving slowly, slipping on the wet leaves beneath his feet, muttering to himself; the word 'idiot' was prominent. Tom leaped, shot his arm out, and grabbed blindly at Phipps's shoulder, and Phipps shrieked, spun, and punched hard with his good hand, connecting with Tom's chest - the shoulder he had laid hold of was the injured one.

"Here, stop that! Calm yourself!"

To the contrary, as usual, Phipps launched himself into a full assault with his good arm. Tom was surprised at how fast the injured boy was, but he managed to seize both his arms, and as Tom pushed the boy back a little, Phipps shrieked again and crumpled to the ground, his hurt arm folding back. They both found themselves on the wet leaf mold of the forest floor. Phipps seemed inclined to struggle for a moment more, but it was clearly evident that he had no chance and he soon went limp. The rain hid any tears, but Tom guessed that they were there.

"I'm sorry, but you really must calm yourself. It'll be all right"

"It's not going to be all right. Nothing's all right. We're going to die."

"We could, yes." No point in lying, Phipps knew much better than that and would not think better of him for it. "We almost certainly will if we lose our heads. We need to stay calm and work together."

"Work together? I'm useless! I'm worse than useless, I'm dead weight. You might do all right if it weren't for me!"

"Oh come now. Are you calm? Here, sit up." Tom sat next to Phipps, shoulder to shoulder, a gentle but firm contact to keep the boy calm. "After that failure of a tent I made? You were absolutely right, it was terrible."

"Well. Yes. It was. Did you have nothing else you could have used?"

"I didn't want to take the tarp off the wagon, and I think that's the only thing we have that's really made for that sort of use. I've seen velvet shed a few drops of water quite well, when I spilt some on a dress my mother was making for a lady, but that's the extent of my knowledge of velvet."

Phipps looked up at him, a little surprised, then looked down almost as though he were blushing, though his colour did not change, as the fever, while lower, was keeping a faint rosiness in his grey skin.

"I went on a hunting trip with my father and George once," Phipps began, "I think it was one of my father's attempts to make me more useful... It didn't work. We had a tent, but George made himself a little shelter of branches. It took a while and I couldn't see the point, he could have brought a tent, too, but it made him happy. Perhaps we could figure out how to do something like that?"

Tom grinned. "Brilliant! See, you are useful! I'd never have thought of that. Here, let's get off this muddy ground and go stoke up the fire." He easily lifted the slender boy to his feet, and continued to support him with a hand under his elbow as found their way back to their camp site.


	10. Sleep and Potatoes

Searching the ground on their way back to the fire for anything that might burn, Tom noted the imprint of a paw, and, as his gaze slowly followed where the claws on it seemed to point, he froze as he saw that the lid was askew on the kettle which held the remainder of the nut porridge.

"I'm sorry I behaved so badly about the food," Phipps said, mistaking the look.

"No, no. I... Do you suppose you bumped that pot when you were on your way out of the tent?"

"No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Look here," Tom offered, pointing. "Earlier I saw a print with claws at about the same placement... I was coming back to camp, before the rain really started. I hadn't seen it when I was leaving the camp to forage. Perhaps something was investigating our food while we were gone."

Phipps muttered something rude and gazed at the thick brush around them. "You're saying that it was here while I was asleep? And that it came back just now? It might be watching us at this moment!"

"Perhaps we've scared if off." Tom heard the tone of his voice and realized that he had no chance of convincing even himself.

Unable to pull his gaze away from the under brush, Phipps muttered, "Let's go back to the raft." He turned a half circle as he tried to take a pace back and scan the underbrush encircling them at the same time. Tom moved along with him and kept a grip on his elbow for reassurance - Phipps's or his own he was not sure just now.

"The storm seems to be passing... It's probably safe. I'll just fetch the gun, first."

Phipps made it back down to the raft without a great deal of trouble, but Tom noted a slight shiver as they alighted.

"Let's see if we can get you dried off, sir, and get you warm. We had better get out of these clothes-"

"Certainly!"

"-but let me get out some dry cloth for us to wrap up in."

"Oh, yes. Of course."

It was not easy getting a bolt of cloth partially unwound while kneeling in the gloom under the tarpaulin which covered the wagon, although the space which he and Pickering had slept in on inclement nights was bigger now that the bolt of velvet had been removed. The next bolt of cloth was a light blue sprigged muslin, and not particularly warming, but in enough layers it would do some good. He laid it back and forth, accordion fashion, as bet he could so that he could crawl between the layers.

"All right, sir" he said backing out and hopping down. "We can take our clothes off and lay them out, then climb in here and be warm for at least a little while. Maybe the sun will come out soon and dry our clothes. Don't take too long, you're turning blue."

Indeed he was, and his fingers fumbled so badly at his buttons that Tom bent to help him, and hung each freed piece of clothing on the sides of the wagon, until Phipps was down to his smallclothes.

"There you are, sir. Now climb on up."

"You are coming in?"

"Be along in just a moment, sir."

The dark ceiling of cloud above showed blue cracks here and there; soon it would be warmer. His own clothing was hung as quickly as he could manage until he was down to his undershorts as well, which he retained for the same reason he had not encouraged Phipps to divest his own - though damp he still needed some modicum of modesty. When he clambered up into the little tarp cave it was to find Phipps curled in a tight ball with the muslin tucked around him. Tom found his way between some of the layers as well, and curled with his back to Phipps. Even through the layers of cloth between them he could feel the young lord, cold as a stone, and his bony back nearly as hard. He didn't think the smaller boy would warm up on his own, and he was just wondering how he should handle this when Phipps asked, very quietly, "Could you... could you put your arm over me? I'm still very cold."

In his surprise, Tom did not answer at once.

"That would not be an imposition, would it?" Phipps asked. "It's just that I'm quite cold."

"No, no, sir. Not at all. I, er... I'm quite used to sleeping all in one bed with my brothers and some neighbor boys." Tom curved his body and arm around the smaller boy, feeling vaguely glad that they had not found their way between the same layers of the accordion folds. The layers of muslin, though not allowing the best sharing of heat, offered some small barrier between them, and regardless of his attempt to put a good face on it in light of Phipps' apparent expectations, he had never had anyone wriggle against him quite like this.

Phipps snuggled closer. "Did you really sleep with your brothers like this?"

"Not quite like this, sir. We kicked each other much more."

A brief chuckle. Was Phipps a little tense, too? "Do you like your brothers?"

"Yes, sir. We get along well, now that we're older. We had some terrible fights when we were younger, but we always liked each other. Joe had to break my nose one time because I was such an ass. It did me good, though." He was talking entirely too much, he realized. Properly, if he were going to defer to Phipps as a Lord he should only speak when spoken to. He had never before been a particularly garrulous person, but he had never been alone for so long in his life as he had been with the other boy unconscious. He found he wanted not only to talk, but more, to hear Phipps talk as well. "Do you have any brothers, sir? If it is not impertinent to ask."

"One. Gerald. He's six years younger than I." There was a long pause. "Father prefers him."

Tom was not sure what to say to such an odd statement. "Oh, sir, that can't be true." He stopped himself short as he realized direct contradiction was a very bad idea when speaking to someone of higher station. How could he save this? "I mean - that is, sir, I mean to say... My mother always said she loved us all as much, but that we were all different and needed different things. Perhaps Gerald needs more attention." He trailed off, unsure how to make this an adequate response, but Phipps did not reply.

However, after a few moments of silence Phipps asked, "The neighbor boys? Why were they in the bed?"

"Well, sir, we only had one big bed for children. My sisters slept at other neighbor's houses, with their girls."

After a moment or tow of silence, when Tom was thinking perhaps he had drifted off to sleep, Phipps spoke so quietly it was almost inaudible. "At school, in the dormatory, we sometimes slept together when it was quite cold. Everyone had their own bed, very small beds, and we weren't supposed to, you didn't want to get caught, it could mean a beating, but we were locked in at night and hardly ever checked on. And it did get so very cold sometimes."

A beating just for huddling together against the cold? It seemed overly harsh to Tom, so he chose the lesser offense to speak to. "They locked you in, sir?"

"Yes."

"But what if there were a fire?"

"Oh, you climb out of the windows on knotted sheets, we had drills for that."

"Ah. I mean, I see, sir."

"Tom?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you think possibly... maybe... you could stop calling me 'sir'?"

Tom was quite taken aback. "I... I don't know. I mean, wouldn't that be inappropriate?"

"Inappropriate." Phipps made a small noise in his nose, as though he were clearing it, a delicate snort. "With all that's happened? And there's just you and I here." He twisted under Tom's arm so that their eyes could meet in the dim light. "I can't see how it could possibly matter. Especially if we... Well. If we don't get back. Besides, you said that we were in this together. Somehow it would seem more appropriate, to me. Comrades and all that. Besides, you're driving me absolutely crazy with it. What possessed you to take up saying 'sir' in every damned sentence?"

"I was trying to be respectful. I thought perhaps I hadn't been properly so... that I was being too familiar."

"You listened to me rant in fever. I'm not all that concerned about it at this point."

"How shall I call you, then? Master Ethan?"

"Horrors. No." He paused, lowering his eyelids - thoughtful or abashed, Tom was not sure. "You could call me Phipps, I guess, as my schoomates do. Or. Or Ethan. In the dorms, if you were good enough friends with a fellow to sleep in the same bed you might call them by their given name, between yourselves at least."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." He raised his eyes to meet Tom's very steadily. "Yes. I would like it."

"All right, then." He seemed to need a moment before he could try the name. "Ethan."

Phipps smiled. "I do like it."

He looked up into Tom's eyes for a moment, his smile faded, and he looked for a moment almost scared. "I hope that you will say what ever you may want to me, and never stand on ceremony. I... I like you." He went on in a rush - "I have liked you from the moment I first saw you, the morning the caravan was leaving Victoria City. I'm glad it's you. Here, I mean. If we have to be here."

Then he stopped himself abruptly, bit his lip, and twisted quickly to turn his back to Tom. He curled up tightly and pushed back against Tom's stomach, tense and shivering.

Tom curled around the smaller boy reflexively, trying to still the shivering by stroking his arm, but his mind was unsettled by this revelation. Phipps had noticed Tom, specifically, the morning they had left on their ill-fated journey? He recalled the young Lord frowning at him, that day, just after Phipps and his friend had parted ways so unamicably, and himself wondering what he could possibly have done to make the other boy angry. How odd that now Phipps said he had liked Tom at that moment when he had been glaring.

After a while Phipps became a little warmer, his breaths grew longer and more slow, and his hard back seemed a little softer against Tom's chest. He seemed to have warmed enough to drift off to sleep, which Tom thought a very reasonable reaction in the circumstances. Soon, despite his growling belly, he followed suit, wandering into a dream in which he seemed to be walking through an orchard with Jennie Harmon, the daughter of the farmer who's field they had camped in at Saradell. He had lost something, though, and kept looking around for it, and when Jennie called his attention back her face had changed - darker and fuller lipped. It was not Jennie, he had been mistaken, but he couldn't place just who it was. Someone more intelligent and more passionate, he thought. Someone much more attractive to him. But as he approached this familiar seeming stranger it all dissolved.

Tom found himself awake, although he was not sure at once what had caused his sudden alert. Then it came again - a small rumble, not as of thunder but of something small rolling and bouncing on the wooden deck of the raft. He tried to raise his head without disturbing Phipps and find a view through the gap in the tarp at their feet, where brilliant sunlight showed, but even this small movement disturbed the young lord.

"What is it?" he whispered, blinking, but alert and nervous.

Tom shook his head silently. Through the gap he could see nothing but the edge of the raft and a sliver of water glinting brilliantly in the sun. For the clouds had entirely departed and the sun now baked down upon the tarp above them, making their space in the back of the wagon delightfully warm, almost too warm. Phipps back - hard in some places, soft in others - was still pressed against Tom's front, and he suddenly felt it as all a little too close. The cloth rustled slightly as he shifted away from Phipps, and a sharp whistle sounded outside. There was another rumble and a slap of water, and then all was silent but for the rippling of the river against the raft and the rustle of a breeze in the trees. He held quite still for a long time, with his head up to listen, until his neck ached from the position. As nothing else was to be heard he finally moved, pushing the muslin back and grabbing the gun before emerging, blinking, from the shadows of the wagon into the warm sun.

There were several wet, brown, lumpy objects lying here and there about the raft, a cluster toward one side in their own puddle of water. Phipps stuck his head out from under the tarp, and Tom turned away from him, searching for his trousers among the clothing hung to dry upon the wagon. They were still quite damp and muddy, but slightly less soaking than they had been, and he pulled them on quickly.

"Rocks? I thought we'd had done with construction."

Tom finished buttoning his trousers and pulled on his shirt quickly, not bothering to tuck it, and then squatted to pick up the nearest of the objects in question.

"Potatoes." He spoke quietly, hardly believing the evidence of his own fingers.

"Perhaps we are moored to a potato tree? It's a joke!" Phipps added, as Tom looked up at the bank.

"I was wondering if whoever dropped them is still up there. Watching."

Eyes wide, Phipps shrank back a little under the cover of the tarpaulin. As Tom dipped the one he was holding in the river water and rubbed the small amount of remaining mud off of it, Phipps exclaimed, "But you can't mean to eat them!"

"I can." Tom replied.

"But we don't know how they came here, or who brought them! They may be poisoned. Or they may be something which only looks like potatoes and is not good to eat!"

For an answer Tom took a small bite of the one he had washed, ignoring Phipps's squeak. "There. I've done this already today, while you were asleep - I tried a berry and puked my guts out, so there's nothing left to lose. If I throw up again you'll know I'm wrong, but I'm not. It's a potato, sure as I'm an Arkadee. We know our potatoes!" He was grinning. If you're up there, thank you!" he shouted up to the impassive trees, waving both arms. He then bounded up, grabbing his now-familiar branches and roots, and was halfway up the bank before Phipps shouted.

"Wait! what are you doing?"

"I'm going to stoke up the fire. I'm going to eat! You can't believe how hungry I am!"

"But- Tom!"

Phipps voice - almost plaintive - faded below as he topped the bank. Tom realized that he was giddy with delight at the thought of food. But it was not only his hunger, it was something greater than that. He had darted off the raft leaving the gun behind. He'd had a sudden sense of safety. The gift of the potatoes meant there was some kindly intentioned person watching out for them. They were not alone!


	11. Friends in Need

Suspicious as he was of the potatoes, Phipps helped gather a few more sticks from under the leaf mould to coax the fire back from the embers, and poked and blew as he could, sneaking wide-eyed glances at Tom when he thought the other wasn't looking. Tom began to feel badly - he had been brusque with the boy earlier and now had frightened him with ebullience; what sort of a protector was he? Neither of them had much choice but to stick together, and Phipps had no one else to turn to. He attempted, now, to move more quietly, conscious again of how much larger he was than the slender Phipps, who huddled in on himself. Eventually he was able to set the potatoes, wrapped in leaves, into the embers at the edge of the fire, and settled himself on a rock to wait for them while Phipps stared doggedly at the flames. He was an odd sort, but really he had held up fairly well, Tom thought.

 

Tom cleared his throat and assayed, gruffly, "I'm sorry. I'll try to stay a little more level-headed."

 

Phipps looked up, cocking an eyebrow. "You? At least you're optimistic. You've been a rock all along. But doesn't it seem awfully odd, though, these potatoes?"

 

"I don't understand why it worries you so. I'm not sure why our benefactor wants to hide himself, but I'm only too happy to have some help."

 

"I don't know. There's something..." Phipps gnawed the corner of his thumb, staring toward the river. "Don't you wonder why the potatoes were wet?

 

"They washed them?"

 

"No... Well, I mean, possibly, but how did they get them onto the raft without being seen?"

 

"We were sleeping."

 

"You jumped up so quickly, though. I don't think anyone could have climbed up the bank that fast."

 

"Maybe they just tossed them down from the bank?"

 

Phipps shook his head. "They would bounce and roll. It seems almost impossible. They'd all have been in the river." He was warming to his topic, now, and his face almost glowed. "Ah! Do you know what I think? I think whoever left these for us must have swum!"

"Swum? But wouldn't I still have seen them?"

 

"They might be quite good at swimming under water. Oh, that has to be the answer!"

 

Tom considered, and nodded. "It sounds good. Make sense. But," he continued, after a moment of thought, "What are we to make of it, though?"

 

Phipps brow furrowed again. "There I'm stumped. You didn't notice anything else?"

 

"Well. Maybe."

 

"What did you see?"

 

"There may have been something in the water. A ripple. Something dove... or maybe it was one of the potatoes falling off the raft. It certainly wasn't big enough for a person."

 

"Hm."

 

"What are you thinking?"

 

Phipps stared at the water for a few moments, musing, but then turned his attention back to Tom with a rueful twist to his lips and shrugged. "I can't make anything of it."

 

Tom did not think he looked as though he could give this mystery up, obviously Phipps was going to fret about this question. But at least it was something different to worry about than if they were going to die, and for that he was glad. "Let's see if we can eat one of these."

 

The first was barely soft on the surface, and the middle was still far too crunchy, so Tom decided it might be best to distract himself by searching through the wagon for something to put on them. Accordingly, he was back on the raft, carefully drawing out each of the various tins and jars for consideration, when splashes and sharp squeals from down stream caught his attention. He shaded his eyes and squinted, but all he could make out with the distance, the curve of the bank and the glare of sunlight on water, was the fact that there was something going on, a tussle between some predator and prey, apparently. It appeared to centre around another of those ubiquitous black, floating dead trees, which rolled, it's limbs waving... now, in the daylight, it looked even more as though they were waving like tentacles, reaching high in the air momentarily, coming down into the water with a splash. He wondered what sort of creature was large enough to be causing such a bulky trunk to roll like that, and then he heard Phipps shout from the forest above. Evidently he had moved toward the activity. Tom cursed and slung his rifle again over his shoulder, heading up the embankment.

 

"Sir! Ethan?"

 

An indistinct shout came back, even further away, but Tom thought this time it sounded delighted, excited, even. Once at the top of the slope Tom dashed headlong through the trees, trying to protect his face with his forearms from the slap of twigs, in such a hurry that he almost missed Phipps entirely. The boy was laying flat against a tree trunk which leaned out over the water, where a bend in the river formed a sort of harbour.

 

"I've got it!" he crowed, stopping Tom in his tracks. "I know who our friends are!" He jerked his head toward the river, as both arms were hanging onto the tree. "If you take a shot try to not hit the little fellows. They're so clever!"

 

Below there was a struggle going on between writhing black tentacles and sleek, wet, brown creatures. The tentacles, though, were confined by something, seemingly a net, which grew ever tighter and constrained the creature.

 

"Whoever trained these animals to fight this way must be our benefactor. We helped them fight the river-monster so he sent them with food for us." Phipps raised his voice - "Call them off so we can get a good shot!"

 

The battle below raged on, and a small brown body floated to the surface where it began to bob off downstream, to renewed squeals from the furred creatures which sounded like anguished rage. One of the group threw himself after the body of his comrade and rolled it the other way up, so that the ratlike face was out of the water, tugging the body to the shore. As the others continued the fight he rolled the stricken one on his side and began pushing on his shoulder and pulling his foreleg up, alternately; it looked to Tom as though he were trying to force the water from his friends lungs. These were very smart animals, he decided, to understand such training for saving a drowning victim and decide when to use it - for he had seen no sign from any one on the river bank, nor heard anything that might seem to be orders.

 

Meanwhile Phipps had shouted again, and now he whistled loudly, waving his arms. One of the animals looked up and responded with two short, peremptory whistles, and all of the troop leapt, swam and scattered from the tentacled creature.

 

"Take your shot!" Phipps urged.

 

Tom raised the rifle to his shoulder, despairing of doing any good - he knew that bullets were often deflected by water, and he had no idea how much of this monster's body was hidden from view or exactly where it would be - but he resolved to do his best and carefully aiming low, in hopes that his bullet would not skip, he squeezed the trigger. The report of the gun was met with a jolt from the creature, and even wilder thrashing, so that a tentacle broke free and waved madly, high in the air. However, the creature was now moving upstream and appeared to have decided that running was the wiser choice.

 

Ethan leapt with joy and threw his arms around Tom. "Great shot!" he crowed, and then continued on in a steady rush about what he had observed before Tom had arrived - the tentacled monster had been lead into a certain spot by one of the furred animals which had faked distress and injury, and the others had brought the net down out of the trees and up from under the water, leaping in unison and wrapping the river monster before it could retreat.

 

Tom found his own tongue loosed by the enthusiastic tirade, and told of what he had observed - the animal who had gone after his friend and tried to revive him on the shore.

 

"Could you ever teach a dog to do that!?" Phipps asked, "They must be incredibly intelligent creatures!"

 

"I don't think you could teach a young child to do something like that, even if they had the capability, physically. And the manoeuvre with the net, leaping from the trees, coordinated? Sounds like they're smarter than my little nephew. Here, let's go see if those potatoes are done."

 

As they ate and discussed Tom began to wonder how odd Phipps might think him if he suggested that there might not be a trainer for these animals. Was it possible that they had done all of this on their own? If so, could they be considered animals? And yet he wondered if Phipps may not have already come to the same conclusion, as there had been that moment of carelessness when he had seemed to be referring to the animals as their friends, and then had apparently collected himself so as to redirect the comments as if he were speaking of the animal's trainer. Well, and why could not these creatures be as smart as humans? Their heads, though initially appearing somewhat ratlike, seemed to have plenty of space for a larger brain.

 

That evening, as they lay curled together preparatory to falling asleep (for Ethan, though not as cold as he had been earlier, had coiled back to Tom's stomach as though that were perfectly usual) he finally gathered his courage to broach the subject. Somehow it seemed easier in the dark to say, "This may seem like a strange idea..."

 

Phipps chuckled softly after he elaborated. "Not strange at all. I think you're right. We've seen no sign of a trainer; I don't think we'll find one. I think if we're to talk to our friends we shall have to learn their language."

 

"Why not teach them English?"

 

"Of what use would it be to them, out there? We may be the only humans they ever see, whereas we may well need to communicate with many of them."

 

Tome agreed to the sensibleness of this outlook, though he felt it might be prudent to consider that this tribe lived not too far from a trade route, "And we might do them some good by teaching them one or two words, so that people will know they're not animals."

 

"Perhaps. What would you suggest? 'Friend?' 'Don't shoot?'"

 

Tom smiled in the darkness at the back of Ethan's head. "Something like that, sure." Soon they settled and ceased conversation, slipping into sleep, despite their excitement at this discovery.


	12. Native Aliens

The next morning Tom woke with a hundred things crowding his mind at once; clothing needed repairing, fish should be caught and cooked along with potatoes and some prunes he had found in the cart - it sounded like a wonderful breakfast and his stomach growled at the thought - and then he wanted to see if they could find some way to talk to these strange friends they had found, but upon rising he found that his plans for the day had been turned upside down; more potatoes awaited, and this time they had not been brought stealthily. An emissary of the tribe had been sent and awaited them next to the small pile of potatoes. He looked a bit nervous, the whites of his eyes showing when he saw them, but the creature sat up, chirred a greeting, and lifted his paws (hand-like, but broad, thick, with impressive claws) palm up to them.

 

Ethan immediately followed suit, falling to his knees and nudging Tom to do likewise, which he did instantly, glad he had not brought the gun out of the cart with him as he might have done. Phipps seemed to be able to imitate the chirring noise almost precisely, but the series of clicks, whistles, grunts, coos and trills which followed were all far too fast for him, and he looked up at Tom with despair replacing the elation he had first shown. "I've no idea where to start!"

 

Their friend cocked his head to one side, waiting for a response, but it took the creature very little time to understand that Ethan had merely been imitating the first greeting and was completely unable to carry on a conversation, and it showed a willingness to began again from first principles. It rolled a potato toward Phipps with a firm and clear chirp. Ethan repeated that noise and rolled the root back. And so it began; a slow and laborious process of trial and error where the boy memorized a series of sounds the meaning of which he was not entirely sure at the moment. Shortly their friend engaged the aid of another of his tribe who had been waiting in hiding on the bank - waiting, Tom supposed, to see that his comrade was not eaten by these gigantic strangers, for even Phipps was enormous in comparison to their furry friends.

 

After a little while Tom though he saw signs that their new friends were finding the proceeding at least somewhat amusing. The darker-furred newcomer was more boisterous than his lighter companion, and at one point emitted a particular trill and back-flipped himself into the water, then came up making a peculiar hiccoughing noise which had Ethan looking to Tom wide-eyed for explanation. "I think it's their laugh." Tom scooped a hand full of water and poured it out while attempting to make the same trill, and considered himself lucky when they only laughed a little and made a noise which seemed to indicate that they approved.

 

Their lessons continued all the day, their friends watching them fish and cook, and making commentary on all of it so that they could learn the words pertaining to those activities. The word for pot required debate, and eventually they did their best to imitate Tom's English word, though their 'p' came out somewhat soft. ("And that," Ethan said later in the evening, after their friends had gone home, "Made me think maybe they don't have pots of their own. They don't have a word for it.")

 

Toward mid afternoon Phipps complained of a headache, but he seemed to be enjoying himself and unwilling to stop. They found themselves playing games like small children in order to learn - a chasing game illustrated 'hide,' 'run' and 'where,' while digging holes and piling dirt also gave them new vocabulary. Their friends seemed surprised and mystified by Ethan's efforts to form a wall out of the mud he had excavated, and impressed by Tom adding sticks as reinforcement - they laughed and patted him in a comradely way for his efforts. By the end of the day Tom was exhausted, and it was not until the boys had curled up together in the wagon, still chattering excitedly to each other even as they fell asleep, that he realized that they had neglected to make a dinner, and that he was far too tired to care.

 

On the morrow their lessons began again, though at the beginning of the day they had not only their friends from the day before but also a cohort of others who all seemed to want to show them things at the same time. Everyone wanted to be part of teaching the strangers until it became a confusing cacophony and Phipps began to laugh, holding his hands up and begging them to stop. They found this so amusing that several of them fell over laughing, and some mimed his hand-gesture, but they took the hint and several of them wandered off, while those who remained were more orderly.

 

After several days of this their teachers again consisted of their initial light brown teacher, Chrrit (who's name referred to the tiny blue flowers which grew on the river bank); the darker one, Trruptuptup (the sound of rain - Tom called him Drizzle); and a smaller individual with almost tabby markings who's name, Kklrl, indicated the type of fish which the boys knew as a spotted sock-fish. Tom and Ethan were unsure how to translate their own names, not being sure if their names had meanings, but Chrrit could do a fair approximation - 'Tong' and 'Eekun' - while Spotted Fish suggested 'TmMm' (pronounced with a growl), which seemed to mean 'Thunder in the Distance,' and 'Iitnu' which possibly meant 'Sharp Stone' but which they also used as their word for the boys knives. Both boys were fascinated and delighted with the idea of names having meanings, and happy with the characteristics which Spotted Fish attributed to them, though Ethan jokingly wondered if TmMm might also mean the rumbling of a hungry belly, as Tom always had an appetite.

 

As they were taught the language of the Whistlers (as Tom and Ethan came to refer to them between themselves) and the tricks of foraging in the woods and the river for edibles, it was perhaps inevitable that the boys lost track of the days. They learned that fart-root was the Whistler's phrase for potato, because their stomachs could not fully digest matter from green Earth plants any more than a human stomach could fully digest the native blue-green plants indigenous to this planet, though Tom and Ethan were learning which ones they could manage without great discomfort, after cooking them well. The weather warmed, they rested and grew healthier, Ethan's temperament grew far more tolerable, Tom learned to swim well, gained more freckles, and did his best to take in his old wagon-mate's clothes so that they didn't hang on Ethan like a scarecrow. However, the boys knew that eventually it would have to come to an end, and one day they found themselves led by their friends into what appeared to be the stronghold of their friends tribe, an area under the trees stretching back from the river bank and pierced all about with burrows.

 

"We're really barely a hundred feet from the raft," Ethan murmured. "They have led us everywhere but here. We're being brought here on purpose, today."

 

They were greeted by Spotted Fish, who sat up and patted Ethan on the knee. Adults and cubs crowded around, making quiet, excited whoops, and some added friendly pats on knees and calves. Some, however, Tom noticed, stayed back and growled or simply glared. One of the cubs ventured to climb Tom and made it quite agilely to his shoulder, upon which three more started up, though trying to knock each other off, playfully, until he waved his hands in the by now understood 'stop!' signal, and gave the sharp whistle that meant 'danger,' as he didn't want any of them falling and hurting themselves. The one who clung to his hair and ear merely smiled beatifically, an expression accomplished mostly with the eyes - or perhaps his smile was smug, Tom thought - and leaned harder against his head, purring.

 

"You think you've won the best seat in the house, don't you?" Tom muttered. "King of the castle?"

 

"He's bold," said Ethan, moving nearer carefully, so as not to step on anyone, and reaching up to smooth the cub's fur, "And he likes you. So soft!" he exclaimed, scratching behind the cub's ear, his hand brushing Tom's ear as well. "And why shouldn't he feel proud of himself? You're like a tree to him! He's very brave climbing a great monster like you!"

 

Now they both felt tugs on their trouser cuffs, and Chrrit directed their attention with a swing of his head to where several grey elders sat on a slightly flattened rise.

 

"Should we bow or something?" Tom asked.

 

The people moved away from them to allow them space to advance, and Phipps stepped forward, slowly, then knelt and bowed from the waist, palms on the ground and head lowered, inclining his shoulders down as well. Tom had to admit it looked good - the pose had the effect of bringing Ethan down in to a similar posture and hight to that of their hosts and bowing from there. Attempting to follow suit without disrupting the cub on his shoulder was somewhat challenging, but the cub managed to back-peddle as his mount changed orientation beneath him, and then to hop off when he was near enough to the ground, with a squeak of triumph, as though he felt he'd done something clever.

 

Tom mostly sat quietly and listened during the ensuing conversation, as Phipps had far more grasp of the language than he did, as well as a greater flair for words, while Tom watched not only the elders but the crowd around him for their response. Over the past days they had learned that The People (for this was the only translation for the long, low whistle and click) referred to humans as 'people eaters,' indicating they had certainly had some experience with humans in the past. When Chrrit had explained this name to them he had seemed apologetic and Tom had understood that the three who had adopted them were both bold and open minded, and that the others who had from time to time visited were curious and willing to be amused rather than fearful and angry, though he had suspected that sometimes they said things among themselves which might be unkind. The few mean-spirited practical jokes which had been played on them had been by Whistlers who had come only for short times and then disappeared into the forest again, and thankfully the boys - Phipps, particularly - had their wits enough about them to try to respond with good humour. Those who were inclined against humans were certainly present now, and they muttered in amongst the crowd; Tom made out the phrase 'dirty cub eaters' more than once. Some were taking their turns speaking to the elders and quizzing Ethan, who, it seemed, was now having to explain the boys' situation to their hosts.

 

"We are cubs," he pronounced carefully, "You can see that we have no fur on our faces, and have no need to scrape it off. This means cub for our people."

 

Someone behind them muttered that they had no right to call themselves People.

 

"Humans," Phipps said in English, then shifted back to the Whistler's language. "People-eaters if you wish, but Tom and I would never eat you. We want to find some way to keep you safe from others who don't understand that you have words."

 

"If they kill us we can kill them."

 

"How did you think we got those fart-roots?" someone else added.

 

Tom felt a sudden chill creep up his back. The People had killed someone! And yet they had attacked the tentacled monster quite handily enough, he knew well that they were not defenceless, although they ate only plants. He had managed to forget their formidable claws and burly shoulders under their soft fur because of the kind good-humour of the Whistlers who had made them friends. Now he had to face that at some point in the past they had done away with someone who had started a garden, who had been attempting to have a home in these forbidding woods.

 

He was, however, somewhat heartened to note that the elders of the tribe were steadier and less hotheaded than some, and that they nodded gravely and thanked everyone for voicing their opinions, and then asked Chrrit, Drizzle and Spotted Fish what opinions they had formed of the boys. Their friends agreed that their impression was that the boys exhibited cub-like playfulness and ability to learn. Tom was a bit mortified at that - their friends had been so playful in order to test them? Still, he tried to put that thought aside, as it was in their favour, and he could not believe, with their sense of fun, that their friends looked down on them for their playfulness.

 

One of the elders quoted a maxim about minds of children and muddy banks both holding impressions, and then asked about their temperament. Spotted Fish responded that they had been goaded and had responded gently, and she glared around at some of the mob surrounding them as she said this. Spotted Fish had a prickly temper, and Tom had seen her bowl over one would-be trickster, chastising him as if he were her own child. (Indeed she had spoken sharply to Ethan as well, about his tendency to be lazy, as she saw it, and it had done him good in Tom's opinion. He had flushed crimson and mumbled that he didn't intend to be so, but he did not know how to sew or cook and was not sure what he could do to help, but that evening he had insisted on doing the washing up after dinner.)

 

Spotted Fish, Chrrit and Drizzle were commended on having taken on this experiment, and asked if they had thoughts about how the Whistlers should proceed with their relations with other humans. Tom blinked in surprise, as 'humans' was actually the word the old one with the shaggy fur had used. His pronunciation was not good, but he had attempted their own word for themselves rather than falling back on the standard derogatory term. However, he found himself worried, and touched Ethan's arm. "He doesn't want to start some kind of..."

 

"Talks? Diplomacy? Good lord I hope not."

 

"They might not get eaten any more if people knew they were intelligent!"

 

Ethan did not look convinced.

 

Drizzle was watching them closely, and now turned to Chrrit and the elders and informed them, quietly, that he had the impression that the boys did not think that talking with humans was a good idea. He had not bothered to learn to speak much English but had seemed to quickly pick up the drift of their conversations.

 

Phipps hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I don't know if it will be possible to convince other humans. Even if they realized you had words they would still think of you as if you did not. Or treat you all as cubs."

 

The Whistlers stared at him, uncomprehending.

 

"They would treat you like cubs, not trust you to make your own decisions. And probably make you do work they didn't want to do."

 

"This does not make sense," said an elder female.

 

"I'm sorry. Most humans don't make sense. It might be safer to assume that most of them are crazy."

 

The elders made signs of acceptance, meaning that it didn't matter if they understood it at the moment. "We will think on it," said the shaggy one. "Meanwhile, you are still young and far from your tribe. Blue Flower, Spotted Fish and Drizzle have spent a great deal of time and effort taming you and it would make them sad if we killed you." (Tom hoped he saw a sparkle of humour in the eye of the shaggy one as he said that.) "It would not be right to keep you from your clan and have you live here, but we would like you to be our guests for a little longer while we discuss."

 

"Not that I have any huge desire to get to my school," Ethan said when they had returned to the raft, "But I am getting a little tired of our diet!" Their hosts had brought them kale, likely from the same gone-to-seed garden ("of a dead man," Tom could not help thinking, now) where they had found the potatoes, correctly surmising that not eating green vegetables might make the boys sickly, and indeed although the diet was boring it was basically healthy. Between that and their daily swims Ethan had changed from his previous sickly grey to a fine, warm walnut tone quite envied by the freckled Tom.

 

Tom had become much more comfortable with Ethan over the past two weeks, and had noticed that the other boy seemed not at all interested in getting back to civilization, and had several times said similar things about his school. Not sure how he should begin he still felt Ethan wanted him to ask, so he tried to make a venture upon it. "Why? I mean, I know school is dull, but your family has paid for you to get an education. You're lucky that they can. I would want to take advantage of that."

 

Ethan looked genuinely remorseful. "It's a damned shame your family can't afford it. You're a sterling fellow and I'm sure you'd do well in the world if you had schooling. But this school isn't really about teaching anything, if the rumours are true. I can't know how true it is, of course, but I've heard that a lot of boys die there. One of my friends told me that's where your parents send you if they don't want you. If you're too much trouble. In the way."

 

"That's..." Tom groped for words. "It would be evil if it were true, and can't believe... Why would someone... It certainly can't be true of your parents, I can't imagine anyone thinking you were too much trouble or in the way." Ethan had been somewhat whinging in the beginning, but he seemed willing enough to try, and as his arm had healed he had become much more manly. "You're very smart, and good company."

 

Ethan gave him a small, sad smile and shook his head. He seemed quite flattered, but it looked as though he remained of the opinion that others might not agree with Tom. "My father and I... perhaps we just have opposing views on things. He doesn't like me, and I'm sure he would be just as glad if I did not return so that he can leave everything to my brother." They both used the same wagon wheel as their backrest, as had become their habit, and he sat with his knees hugged to his chest.

 

"Well what stops him from doing that, anyhow?"

 

"I think I might be able to contest it in court or something. I don't know." Ethan shrugged.

 

"Would you?"

 

"I don't think I would want to, now. I should prefer to earn my own money, I think, if I can find a way to do so, rather than take anything of his."

 

Tom decided to let it rest for the moment. It would, after all, not be an issue for some time, if ever.

 

"What do you think of the Whistler's belief that they would be able to kill humans who killed them?" he asked.

 

"Disastrous," said Ethan, sadly. "Their tribe would be wiped out, and probably any other tribe which was found later on as well. I'm not sure they'd be able to understand how ruthless humans are."

 

"We can't let that happen."

 

Ethan only nodded, hugged his knees tighter, and gazed out at the moonlight on the river. In his face Tom could see his complete conviction that things could never work out well for their friends now that humans were here, and that there was nothing which could be done. Tom felt at that moment large, clumsy, oafish, helpless and unhelpful, as though Ethan's own future and that of the Whistlers were bearing down on his small and frail-appearing friend with the implacableness of a juggernaut. With nothing else he could do, he said, "You're cold. Let's get to bed, eh?" and, putting an arm over the smaller boy's shoulder he gave a companionable squeeze.

 

Ethan had begun, mechanically, to say, "Yes, please," but then tensed and slowly turned his face up toward Tom. He still looked haunted, but also confused. After a long, puzzled, searching look, however, he leaned his head against Tom's shoulder and pushed in a little closer under Tom's arm. "You really are the most sterling of fellows, a prince," he murmured. "I suppose we should sleep, I am knackered."


	13. The Dangers of Mud

The next morning their friends arrived early to tell them that it was time for them to begin their trip back to their tribe, and to announce that Drizzle had decided to accompany them as a guide, (obviously to the envy of Spotted Fish and Chrrit, who had bowed to their family's wishes that they not go) as Drizzle knew some of the variations in dialect of the other Whistlers who lived downstream along their way. 

"He understands that we came from upstream?" Tom asked. Drizzle, who had learned some of their habitual gestures, nodded, and explained that it would be a much easier trip to go downstream a way and introduce the boys to some friends who travelled far and quickly, and knew all about humans and where they lived. These friends, who he described as 'big as a hill,' did not have a good opinion of humans and kept track of them mainly so as to avoid them, but he thought they might be willing to help, if the boys were given an introduction. Tom started to protest that he thought it might make more sense to try to go upstream on foot, because he was fairly sure that it could only be a matter of a few days journey to find the trade trail, but Ethan interrupted him. 

"And go right back to where we know there are brigands? With the prospect of walking by ourselves to Abernetty? Wouldn't it be more fun to find out who their friends are who are big as a hill? They might have information which could help us, and even if not, this could well be the same river that empties into Reseldjis Bay, where the island of Eugenia is, and we could certainly arrange passage home from there. Perhaps we could sign on as deck hands!" His eyes sparkled, and Tom found himself nodding almost despite himself. He certainly knew he didn't want to travel back into the area of the highwaymen, the two boys alone, on foot, carrying anything they needed on their backs and abandoning the wagon. 

Drizzle needed no preparations - he had said his goodbyes before coming to the raft - so Tom and Ethan thanked Chrrit and Spotted Fish for all of their help, and for their defence at the council meeting, and then they gathered into the wagon what few belongings were scattered about. Ethan, however, delayed them a short time by asking if they couldn't have another pole so that he might help Tom if needed, which request Tom thought should be honoured to encourage the new-found desire of the young lord to be useful, even if it seemed unlikely that the pole would actually be of use. Drizzle observed with great interest the process of finding a saw within the cart and limbing a small tree, and Tom could almost imagine that it might not be long before they might see Whistlers punting along the river. 

Within a half hour they were casting off, and used their poles to push away from the bank, out into the stream, and Ethan's face fairly glowed with delight watching the trees glide away behind them. Not far downstream, in the bend where the water was shallow, they saw Whistler adults and cubs both, swimming. Their friends had shown them that this was where the back doors of their burrows emerged under water, where their cubs learned to swim and where the river monsters - if not convinced by force that it was too much trouble - thought they could pick up an easy meal. Several of this year's cubs had been taken before they had been able to discourage the beast. 

It only took a little while before the quiet of the river and the unvarying scenery of trees began to lull the boys, and first Phipps and then Tom, a short time later, stretched out in the sun to nap, assured by Drizzle that all should be safe enough for a while. 

When he awoke them some time later with the news that they were coming to a fast spot it took them a moment to rub the sleep from their eyes, but a sharp whistle told them that they needed to ready themselves, and they stood to the poles. 

They could see the white froth up ahead, now, and the source of the rushing noise which had been growing in their ears became apparent. Soon the raft rolled and bucked it's way down the river, faster than Tom could have thought possible, and the boys braced their legs and nearly lost their balance until they found the slight flex of the knees which they needed. Then the raft came into the area where rocks broke the top of the water into white foam, and the boys did their best to fend the raft off from them, but it took only moments before Ethan found himself tossed halfway across the raft, landing by the wagon, hard. Tom was by his side in a moment, and then there was a tremendous 'crack!' and Tom, also, was thrown down. The roar of the water deafened them and they clung together for a short eternity, enduring the bone-shuddering impacts, able only to hope that all would hold together, being drenched to the skin by the spray. 

Finally they realized that their battered raft had made it's last buck and settled down again to a smooth progress, as the noise subsided, and they lifted their heads and mopped ineffectually at their faces with their sopping sleeves, looking around to assess their situation. Drizzle had sprawled against the grass matting and dug his formidable claws all the way through it and into the logs beneath; he was wet, which bothered him not at all, and unharmed. The raft, if the cracking sounds they had heard during the rapids were any indication, may have had a few more splits here and there along the timbers, but above the waterline it looked very little different. Even the wagon was still firmly lashed in place, and somehow Ethan's pole had not rolled off, it's remaining bark having snagged against the grass matting. Ethan, though a little pale beneath his walnut colour, grinned delightedly.

The quieting of the river accompanied it's having spread wide, and they were being propelled into water which spread like glass before them with barely a ripple in amongst the trees with no honest banking or solid ground within sight ahead of them. As they slowed Ethan jumped up, wincing and rubbing his arm, but grabbed up his pole and tested the depth of the water. 

"The bottom is mucky, but we should be able to pole. What an inconvenient vessel a raft is, completely at the mercy of the current! Do you think we might make ourselves a boat?"

Taking up a station at the other side of the raft, Tom frowned slightly as he considered this. "I have seen boats in construction, and it seems that boat builders have a lot of tools." He found himself unwilling to disappoint Phipps, however, even if it was merely a passing whim. "We might manage something, I suppose, but we should wait until we find out whether this will take us to the Whistler's friends home, and see what they say about how we might get home. How far is it to where your friends live?" He attempted this last in his poorly accented Whistler.

"We may find them anywhere. If they are not here today, they may be here tomorrow." 

Tom's heart sank. "They don't stay here?"

"They wander. They are very large, it's hard for them to eat long in one area."

"What if we miss them?"

Drizzle patted Tom's knee reassuringly. "It will work out. The local People will know when the Grey Ones were last here and where they drink, now. We should go East, soon, to find the home of the Swamp People." 

The water stretched out on all sides, mingled with strange trees which grew directly out of the water, and the roots of which caught any sort of floating detritus, here and there creating what Tom's family and neighbours might call a preskisle, a handy general term which he was comfortable with, though of habit he clumsily translated in his head to the English enforced by his schoolmasters into 'an almost island.' As they moved in the direction their friend indicated these trees and proto-islands grew nearer together, and soon it became nearly impossible to get the raft between them. They moved down one false channel and then another, each time finding they needed to back the raft out again to try for a different rout, until at last even Tom became exasperated. Ethan was positively frazzled.

"I don't think we can go any further this way!" he exclaimed, eventually, "It's just impossible! Couldn't we perhaps find some way to pick through on foot?" 

Drizzle gave him a sidewise glance which generally indicated he was about to make fun of someone, and responded, "On those feet? You might break those long stick legs! We might try, I suppose, though you will get muddy, and probably lost. I have noticed you cubs have no sense of direction. Why don't you wait here and I'll look around?"

"Wait?" Ethan began, somewhat piteously, but Drizzle was already on his way.

"Or look around if you wish, but I'll be able to cover more ground by myself."

Ethan looked stunned, and Tom almost laughed at Drizzle's cavalier attitude. Somehow Ethan had accepted well enough when he was amongst the Whistlers, that he was a guest, and not a Lord in this foreign country, but now that Drizzle was the only Whistler on board their raft it seemed he had thought perhaps deference would be shown. Grinning, he slung his own pole down and sat, stretching out his legs, and Ethan caught his smile in moments. 

"Well, I guess he is probably right, and we should respect our elders," he said, dropping down next to Tom. 

For a while he seemed happy enough to chat about the view, the river, where they were headed, the potential benefits to culture of translating some of the Whistler's epic story songs, the dastardly shame that the source of them should probably not be revealed, which would make translating them no better than plagiarism, and other topics that crossed his mind like the skating bugs on the water around them. Soon enough, however, he became restless, as Tom had thought he might. If it were that Ethan's schooling had been less strict than Tom's or if he just naturally had higher animal spirits, Tom wasn't sure. It barely crossed Tom's mind that he himself had been awake earlier, cooked their breakfast and done much more toward preparing their things for travel, while Ethan had only poled the raft a little - no, all Tom realized at that moment was that he was perfectly happy to lie in the dappled shade and rub fragrant oils into his skin against the biting insects, and that if Ethan really needed to stumble through the muck it was probably not too dangerous, or Drizzle would have said. 

"Just don't go out of sight of the raft. And yell if anything happens. And don't step on anything that might be poisonous."

"Yes, Nanny." With that the young lord grinned and was off, picking his way carefully and looking around as though each new step offered him a different vista. Slipping a little here and there and getting covered with muck to his knees seemed not to dampen his spirits in the slightest. Tom thought, as he watched the boy's progress, that perhaps Drizzle was right, human legs might not be made for this terrain, and he despaired of Ethan's boots. They had already taken some beating in the last couple of weeks. "Still, so long as they hold together long enough to for us to get to civilization," he thought, laying back and closing his eyes. They would have to get some clothing washed as soon as they got back to open, running water. For the moment he relaxed, as the older caravan men had taught him one should whenever given the chance, to be ready for the next push of work. Possibly he did doze for a time, as it seemed mere moments before he was dragged up by faint but repeated noises, which, upon waking, his ear resolved as Phipps's distant shouts. 

Cursing himself for a fool, and a lazy one, Tom snatched up the gun and bellowed back, "I hear you!" On his very first step he slipped and splashed one foot into the water, almost catching his boot between the tree roots, but that misstep woke him up and he proceeded more carefully thereafter, calling out every now and then, "Where are you?" and listening for the return cry from Ethan. "Oh, lord, if he is hurt!" he thought, and a moment of panic at the thought almost threatened to overwhelm him, but he stopped himself with, "He calls strongly enough, it can't be too bad." 

Tom barely noticed that the muck between the roots was becoming more solid as he travelled through the under brush and brambles, finding as direct a rout as he could break to Phipps. Soon it was soft ground under his feet, and then the trees opened onto a long, narrow, meadow of shining green grasses which rippled in the sun. "Ethan?" he called again.

"Here!" The voice sounded close, but a little muffled as yet. And Ethan's voice seemed to come from directly ahead, though there was nothing to be seen but grasses stretching away for a length of a few rods before the trees took up again. "Tom, be careful! It looks perfectly lovely, but there's a sort of mushy bit, it just crumbles at the edges, and I can't find enough purchase to get out." 

As he followed the voice and advanced, with care, Tom finally spotted the break in the grass, a mire, in which Phipps had himself fairly well embedded up to his armpits, his arms spread out to stop his downward descent. His arms and head were so well smeared from splashing down into the muck that it would look almost comical if the situation were not so dire.

"You didn't bring a rope?" Ethan demanded.

"I had no idea!" Tom responded, then realized his voice was echoing Phipps's peevish tone, lashing back. "He's scared," he thought, "I must be stronger to calm him, scared people always sink faster," and said aloud in a more neutral voice, "I can get a branch to reach you with and have you out in no time. I'll be quick." He dashed back to the trees, peering about, but saw no handy branches lying upon the ground, and none that looked dead and about to fall anywhere within reach. "I'll go back for a rope! I won't be long!" he called out.

He thought he heard a muffled whimper as he hurried away. Soon, however, he heard the Whistle distress call, carrying well though growing fainter behind him. "He must be trying to call Drizzle back to help," though what their small friend could accomplish he had no idea. Still, perhaps at the very least Drizzle might keep him calm until Tom could return.

Back through the briers, more scratches, many more, before breaking through to where the tree roots had muck between them and a slip might mean a broken ankle, but finally he reached the raft and lay the gun down to tear at the knot of the rope not currently mooring their craft, then pulled his knife and hacked through it in frustration and flipped loops of it from shoulder to hip as he started back. This time as he neared he realized he was hearing other whistles - there was a conversation going on, and it sounded like far more than two individuals. He slowed a little, looking around, realizing there were probably eight or more Whistlers of all sizes moving among the trees - no, more, possibly more than a dozen, he saw now, some pulling branches much longer than themselves, moving toward the meadow, and others apparently having dropped their loads at the mire, now heading back for more. 

The surface of the bog, he saw, had been covered with a sort of raft of deadwood, and Phipps had ceased sinking and seemed to be making some little headway, tortuously pulling himself along by inches as the wood sank beneath his weight, to encouraging words from Drizzle and others who were just arriving with more branches. 

"Well there, you're doing fine, you don't even need this rope," Tom said, smiling - nevertheless unlooping it from around his body as he spoke and tossing the end to Ethan. Within moments his friend was standing on his feet before Tom, quite drenched with muck, and Tom gripped the boy's shoulders while they grinned at each other, foolishly, for a moment, then Tom found himself crushing Ethan against his chest in a tight hug, quite ignoring the mud. "I need to reassure him," he thought, fuzzily, in a fog with his relief, "he's been badly scared." Eventually, the chirrups of the Whistlers around them came through his fog and he stepped back, patting Phipps on the shoulder again. "I'm glad you're all right." 

Ethan, still smiling, if looking a bit stunned, looked searchingly at Tom's face, but only said, "I'm fine, thank you," then remembered himself and, looking around, added, "Thank you, Drizzle. Thank you, friends. I'm in your debt," in their own language.

Various responses came back, mostly "don't fret," "not important," and others insisted Phipps must come back to the burrow and get warm and dry before he took ill. They crowded about the boys' knees, patting and tugging their pants legs.

The boys moved in the direction in which the Whistlers nudged them, Tom feeling a bit dazed and Ethan repeatedly glancing up at him with a perplexed and worried expression. Tom, himself, did not notice that he was scratching at one of the brambles marks until Ethan seized his hand. 

"Don't pick at them. Those scratches need to be washed!" 

Tom shrugged. "Nothing I can do until we get back to the raft and out on open water, I guess. But it seems we have to pay a visit to the local tribe, first."

"You know very well we shouldn't let it slide," and then he was off on a chirruping and gurgling communication with Drizzle and the others.


	14. The Lodge of the Swamp People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys visit the Lodge of the Swamp People, Ethan bathes Tom and Tom feels a bit queer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally only 1480 words, NOW INCREASED TO a little over 3,000 words! :) Probably has major numbers of typos. No particular beta has been done, so feedback is much adored and caressed. :)

It was not long before something became visible between the trees, ahead - a tangled mass of fallen branches, it appeared, and at first they took it to be a wash-up from the river flooding, as water shimmered through the trees to one side and the heap seemed to extend into the water, but then their hosts began to chirrup about home, and that they thought even these giants might be able to fit inside some space within it. Tom was not sure of his translation of the words, as part of it sounded like 'counsel,' reminding him uncomfortably of their judgement by Drizzle's tribe.

"Are they putting us on trial, already?" he muttered to Phipps.

Ethan gave him a quick, swiping pat on the back and a glimmer of a fond smile. "I don't think we've had time to annoy them, yet. I get the impression it's just a space they can fit the whole tribe into, a meeting lodge or something of that type."

And that was what it proved to be. The pile of sticks resolved itself into a long, low, rambling lodge or nest of sorts, which seemed to have been built, repaired and expanded upon for years, extending in different directions as the ground and larger trees dictated, incorporating into it both fallen and living trees, and in one place running even up into the lower branches. In some places the hut was really just a pile, in others it appeared to have been woven from living brush, still green and growing.

The boys had to crawl through a short tunnel, and very carefully at that, to avoid hooking their shirts, in order to see the inside of the tribe's great hall, but once within they found that it was in fact as impressive as they had been led to believe; tall enough for them to sit up without any danger of hitting their heads, and easily long enough for even Tom to lie down if he had cared to do so.

A great number of the tribe began to crowd in with them, plying them with questions about their trip so far and news from the tribe upriver, and Phipps did his best to answer these for some minutes, although they had to defer to Drizzle for all news of who had produced cubs with whom, and Ethan threw increasingly anxious glances at Tom, until after a bit he begged that he needed to get back outside and confer with Drizzle and possibly some tribal elders. "Stay here and talk a bit. Rest. Ask them to tell you stories about the Walking Hills. Anything you can learn about how to find them or what sort of creatures they are would be very helpful."

And so Tom found himself attempting to make conversation in a language he was still quite unproficient with, and listening to an epic tale of a huge storm, generations past, which had wiped out much of their lodge, a story of young lovers who had become separated, the female washed down river, and her epic journey back, bringing the Walking Hills with her. These enormous creatures had helped the swamp tribe to rebuild, ripping down green boughs or pulling up small trees, which could be woven together, unlike the dead, fallen wood which had been the tribe's only available building materials, previously. They were portrayed as kindly and clever, mitigating what could have been terrifying power. And somehow they dexterously manipulated things with their noses. He was sure he'd misheard the word and asked for a clarification. Yes, noses, but somehow they nose was described as like an extra forelimb. What strange creatures these must be! And yet somehow the description seemed familiar.

After a while it became far too warm and stuffy in the Hall, and Tom carefully turned himself around, begging the pardon of all the people who he had to ask to move in order for him to do so, and wriggled with great care back out of the tunnel, curious as to what had kept Ethan outside for so long.

A small fire crackled merrily in a freshly cleared space near the water, Drizzle and Ethan warming themselves near it (Phipps resembling a pot that had done badly in the kiln, cracking and dropping bits of clay off himself), while the others watched from a little further away, white showing in circles around their eyes as they followed the course of every spark that rose.

"I think you may be frightening our hosts."

"Oh, a little," Phipps responded, carelessly. "I want to show them it's possible to have fire be safe, though. Drizzle took two friends and kindly went back to the raft for the pot, and now we'll have boiled water to wash out your scratches."

The other boy sounded so proud of himself for this accomplishment that Tom didn't have the heart to follow up the point he'd been trying to make. Phipps was trying hard to make himself useful, and criticizing at the moment would not support that. Tom smiled, tested the temperature of the water (barely tepid) as he dropped his handkerchief into it, and said, "Thank you. This is very kind of you."

Ethan glowed, smiling and turning red. "Well. I should. I feel responsible."

"You're not. It was my own foolishness. I went through instead of around."

"For..." Ethan glanced up from under his brows, then picked up a stick and poked at the coals that were beginning to develop, trying to herd them toward the pot. The word 'me' did not need to be said.

"It must have been difficult for them to carry the pot back here."

Obviously grateful for the change in subject, Ethan perked up. "A long stick through the handle, and each took an end in his mouth. It was very clever!" He pointed out the two from the tribe who had, with Drizzle, managed this task, and introduced them in their own language, something like 'Tingling Scent' and 'Mud Slide,' while Tom tried to compose a few words of thanks, attempting to convey that he was impressed by their efforts.

"Do sit down and relax," Ethan urged. "Have you learned anything about the Walking Hills?"

"I've learned you should never send me to talk to people. You're much better at that. They told me a good story, but I don't think I got much that's new out of it. Well... they did teach the Whistlers here the trick of weaving the green branches."

"Oh! Then they are more advanced!"

"Perhaps. I don't really know."

"They must build huge houses for themselves."

"I haven't heard that they build anything for themselves."

Ethan frowned, and looked to the others, who were chatting amongst themselves, Drizzle translating some of the English conversation. "What sort of burrow do the Walking Hills make for themselves?"

"Burrows? They walk." (Yes, they walked, the others agreed with Drizzle.) "They're too big to fit in a burrow." ("Far too large." "They're really big.")

"But they can build things. They helped you build this, yes?"

Drizzle merely shrugged in a way that meant he not only couldn't say, he wasn't even sure he understood the question. "They don't stay in one place for a long time."

"They go North when it gets cold," someone else offered.

"And shelter under trees from the rain or too much sun."

The next half hour was spent with more stories, during which time the water steamed and simmered both their handkerchiefs. With a stick bleached and smoothed by the river the boiled cloths were fetched out and Ethan insisted that Tom strip at least to his under things so that all of the scratches could be found. Tom hesitated but complied, reasoning that the Whistlers did not wear any clothes at all and that he shouldn't care if Ethan looked.

Yet somehow he did care, and was quite brought about when the other boy began sponging the scratches on his shoulders. Ethan responded to his protestation with a somewhat annoyed sounding, "How will you reach these? You have enough to worry about with your arms and all. You're a mess!" and more of the sort, though Tom noticed a flutter to the boy's chatter which made him think he was not so comfortable as he was trying to pretend. He decided that if Phipps was trying so hard to make up for something, he, Tom, should allow him to follow an altruistic impulse, and convinced himself that it was the right thing to do to relax and enjoy being fussed over. It was soothing - pleasant, actually. The Whistlers would certainly not comment on this, either, as they often groomed each other. In fact, during nearly every conversation where a few were together that seemed to be a natural part of how they interacted.

Finally, most of the scratches were cleaned to Ethan's satisfaction, though he paused long over one on Tom's face. Dabbing at the thorn's mark, he licked his full lips. The slightest crease appeared in his forehead, as he moved closer to investigated it. Tom felt the queerest urge, as though he should do something, and he wasn't sure what.

"It's okay."

"Yes?" The hint of crease between Ethan's brows disappeared, though now he looked almost scared.

"My eye is really okay, it's fine."

"Oh! Yes, yes of course. It seems to be." The other boy looked down. "Sorry, I... well. Should... should we consider dinner? The Whistlers here have some thoughts about local plants we might be able to eat, and um, we've already got the fire... In fact, I think I should see if I can't catch a fish."

"I'm almost sick to death of fish."

"I agree! Still, I guess there's not much for it." And with a slightly manic grin Ethan began to speak quickly to Drizzle and his friends. After an exchange he turned back to Tom for a moment, saying, "They wonder if we ever sit still. I said no! Not unless we're dead!" And with that he set off in the direction of the raft.

 

Tom donned his clothes, feeling terribly awkward and foolish. Ethan seemed to like him, it was true, but they would return to civilization soon enough, he was sure. He imagined Ethan at the school in Abernetty, meeting new friends, and Tom glared into the fire. If he and Ethan even encountered each other again after that it would be as master and servant. 

In the moments that it had taken for this to pass through his mind the tribe had gathered around him, and now one ventured to ask if Tom had any story-songs he could share with them. He attempted a smile and forced his mind to other things - he was being a poor guest. He had an acceptable voice which had mostly given up squeaking at inopportune moments, and, although he could not speak their language well enough to translate a song while he was singing it, he might give it to them in the original and then translate the gist of it. In this manner they all passed an enjoyable time as they waited for Phipps to return, and by the time he did, with several small edible fish and both bedrolls slung over his shoulder, Tom had started more water simmering with some herbs the Whistlers had pointed out to him, and had most of the tribe gathered close around, and several little ones sitting on him. As usual, they had vied for his shoulders and the one who got that seat insisted on licking his ears.

"They love you," Ethan commented, grinning, as he set the fish to cook on sticks by the fire. "You're a Pied Piper of Whistlers. Ah, but I should not be surprised, everyone does, as soon as they see you." 

Tom's mood had lightened, but at this he couldn't help thinking of the first time Ethan had been aware of his existence, which brought back a shadow of that dark mood. "That's not true," (He tried to say it lightly, but it didn't come out quite right, and he almost winced from the edge of his own voice.) "Not everyone. You didn't."

Ethan frowned and only made a slight noise in the back of his throat as though he were trying to recall, and scooped a mug of the herbal tea out of the pot, handing it to Tom.

"You didn't," Tom continued, "I only looked at you and you seemed put out with me about it."

"No. You misinterpreted."

"How could I misinterpret that? You glared." Tom knew he should stop himself and not say any more, but somehow the thought that they had been strangers and that Ethan had disliked him, and that they would someday again need to be strangers, that this friendship which seemed so strong and so right just at this moment would soon be negated after they found the Walking Hills, all this seemed to pull him down into some spiritual morass from which he was unable to escape. 

"It's not true," said Phipps, an edge of despair in his voice. "I, I did like you. It was only that I hated the way you looked at me."

"I? There was something wrong with the way I looked at you?"

Ethan nodded and met his eyes. "As though you were sorry for me. As though I were pathetic."

"I certainly never meant -"

"No, no, don't say you're sorry. It was true. I WAS pathetic, I realize that, now. And I liked you enough, without even knowing you, that I didn't want you feeling sorry for me! But now I know you, and I know that you can't help the fact that you pitied me, because you're kind hearted. You may be the kindest person I've ever met, and you certainly shouldn't apologize for that!" Ethan's voice quavered a bit as he finished, and he clamped his mouth tight shut. 

The cubs were restless, and they and the rest of the tribe watched this with increasing signs of worry, so Tom reached to touch Ethan's hand, to calm him, and suddenly found Ethan up against his side, and his arm wrapped around the boy's shoulders. This was not quite what he had intended, but he smoothed the boy's back and made soothing noises. He ran back over the conversation in his mind, wondering at his own anger (Or was it sadness? He wasn't quite sure.) and at what had caused the agitation Phipps was feeling. His life before meeting Ethan had been dominated by work; the last few days (or had it been weeks?) had been the most rest and fun he had ever had, with little to do besides keep a fire going and cook for the two of them. He knew that he had a certain knack for understanding emotions, for giving a reaction that seemed to make other people and animals feel better or happier or more trusting of him, but he had never had time for anything much more complicated in the way of trying to determine the whys of emotions than looking for what was scaring the mules. His family and friends had been reasonably straightforward people, also with little time for complexities. Ethan seemed to have whole worlds of things that happened inside him. Was it because of reading a lot of books? It both confused and interested Tom, and seemed to have sparked something similar within his own mind.

Finally he murmured, "I'm not sure I understand all of what's going on. Do you want to explain?" He was careful to put the emphasis on the word "want" to make it plain he would not intrude if that intrusion were not welcome, but that he was happy to listen.

Ethan slanted a look up at him from the corner of his eye, took a deep breath and exhaled in a silent sigh. "You're so smart about some things. With others you can be... endearingly naive. No, I shouldn't try to explain this to you."

"You act like you're my elder, trying to protect me from something."

"I might be your elder. In experience if not in actual years, although you are younger than I thought when I first saw you. And I am older than I appear. I don't want to admit that, because I can't help but enjoy how well you've taken care of me. I like feeling protected by you."

"I'm pretty much an adult. I have a job. How much longer do you have to go to school?"

"You do understand that I'm expected to accomplish different things from school than you were? I have to pass certain levels of proficiency in Latin and boring things like that. When there's so many more interesting things I could be studying! Why, we might easily be the same age."

Tom only nodded, pushing back the brief desire to snap at the boy. Of course he understood that their schooling had different goals. Tom had been encouraged by his family to learn to read comfortably and do enough maths to balance books, which was more support for learning than many of his friends had from their families. But the point of school was to make it possible for him to work, and learn what the employer wanted him to learn, and it was done as soon as he had been hired. 

"Tell me, now that you have a job, does a sweetheart and marriage follow soon after? Or is that just an impression I have?"

"Maybe, for some. I suppose it would depend upon the person."

"What about you? When you get back, when you get your job back - I know you will, I'm sure Brackenstall will be delighted to see you - do you think you'll try to find a girl and get married?"

"I don't know." He didn't want to go back to thinking about how much he did not want their friendship to end; he certainly couldn't seem to think about a hypothetical wife at the moment. "There's no hurry. Our pastor always said kissing girls leads to more mouths to feed, and right now there's enough little ones, with my younger siblings and nieces and nephews. I think I should contribute to the family for a while longer before I do that."

"You do know, don't you, that kissing is not the immediate and direct cause of pregnancy?

The crinkle around his eyes told Tom that Ethan was far from thinking that he had any such impression, so, "No," he said, "Of course not. It's just a saying, like 'a pint's a pound the world around.' Who ever heard of any pubkeep charging that much for a drink?" He nudged Ethan's shoulder and was rewarded with an elbow poked into his ribs and a grin. 

Somehow the rest of the evening was spent in comfortable camaraderie, having their dinner, singing songs for the Whistlers and chatting about this and that, until they could no longer keep their eyes open. They took their boots off and rolled up in their blankets before the dying embers, and, true to his habit, but without pretending in the least about it, Ethan rolled until his back was against Tom's stomach, and Tom wrapped his arm protectively around the smaller boy as though it were almost becoming normal. Ethan had admitted he liked it, and that made Tom feel happy in a way that was new to him. He knew he should not hope that he never got back home - he did miss his family, and he was sure that they must be having a slightly harder time without the money he had earned - but he was very content at the moment and wanted to hold onto this for a little while longer.


	15. News of the Walking Hills and walking toward the hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I screwed up and posted this before I'd given it an appropriate amount of thought. After review I realized I had concluded the Chapter the wrong way - had forgotten where I was planning to go with Chapter Sixteen - and am now excising the last few paragraphs so that that the beginning of Chapter Sixteen will make sense.

Early the next morning, as the boys were shaking out their blankets preparatory to rolling them up, a cheerful greeting whistle sounded from the West - very faint at first, and answered by the Swamp Tribe almost before Tom was properly sure he'd heard anything. Within instants complex trills had been exchanged and most of the tribe left off with whatever tasks or pastimes they had been at and flowed off, almost as though they had one mind and thought, to greet the newcomers in person, and escort them back with much delighted chirruping, so fast that Tom could make no sense of it and even Ethan shrugged and grinned at Tom's raised eyebrows.

"I think I might have heard a reference to us, but otherwise I can't make out much of it." He cocked his head as something else caught his ear. "We may have news!" He knelt down, and motioned to Tom to do likewise, to greet the new arrivals at the centre of the throng, who cocked their heads, warily watching the boys while approaching. Tom echoed Ethan's greeting phrase, hoping he didn't sound like a complete idiot for not being able to compose one of his own.

The newcomers were two males and a female, and wanderers like Drizzle. This was an unusual trait in Whistlers, the boys had begun to realize, because usually a Whistler hated to be separated from the group, and they were much more likely to set off in small groups rather than alone. The wanderers were much petted upon their return, as everyone was happy to see them still alive, and they were valued for their understanding of the world. If a tribe found they had to relocate, the new site had often been found in advance by these scouts, and for this they were invaluable to their tribe. 

This group had indeed seen the Walking Hills only a few days before, much to Ethan's growing excitement. They had last been seen heading North East, and the tribe seemed in general agreement that catching up to the gigantic creatures could well be possible, as frequent long stops were common to that breed. 

Ethan was terribly excited, and they must needs collect their things together as quickly as possible and return to the raft. They had a slow start, poling their way out of the trees, but soon enough managed to find a channel where the current flowed faster and felt they were truly on their way. Once out of the trees they could see that the swamp they were in was a bowl of sort between the low hills. Soon, however, as the land slipped by quickly, the hills marched further away to the East and fell behind them on the West. 

In contrast to Ethan's excitement, however, Tom found his heart sinking. "We will have to leave the raft and go overland. I'm not sure we can carry everything we need."

"It probably would have happened eventually," Ethan replied.

"I know. I mean, I should have known. I couldn't help but hold out hope that if these Hill folk were so large they might help us move the cart."

"Through the wilderness? With no roads?"

Tom scowled at him. "All right, I wasn't thinking. I just wanted somehow to get it back to Mr. Brackenstall."

Ethan's patted Tom's arm. "I think he probably knows that you would have, if it were humanly possible." 

Drizzle was perched atop the wagon, keeping a sharp eye out ahead and calling out if there was any sign of rapids, so that for the moment the boys could set their poles down and busy themselves with the task of making packs and preparing for the overland trek. Soon they had a fairly large stack of things which they felt they absolutely needed, and began to be nervous as to whether they could carry it all. Ethan thought it should be no trouble at all, because he could lift the pack to his back without wobbling too much, but Tom felt the packs might be untenable over a longer walk, and continued to try to find ways to make the load lighter.

"I think you could use a drag outline," Drizzle offered.

Tom wasn't sure he'd understood the last word, or misinterpreted it. "An outline?"

"You don't know how to make an outline? It's for when you have a companion who's sick or injured and you need to return them to family. You could use one to pull your things, here." He climbed down and stood on his hind paws next to the cart in order to scratch upon the side of it with his claws, and thus drew a diagram of the general plan; a frame shaped like a capital 'A,' the peak being the only point contacting the ground, the legs of the A being used to drag it. The Whistlers would weave a net of twisted grasses or vines to fill the space between the legs of the A, and twist more rope into a harness with which they could pull the whole, "Because we don't find it comfortable to walk upright for long, as you do," he concluded, dropping down and doing a few twists with his hips. "Grr, how can you stand it?" 

"Drag frame," Tom decided, would have been a better translation of what Drizzle had said, and he had to admit he had never conceived of such a thing, but on being shown it he realized it was so very simple it should have been second nature. The Whistler's stubby, claw-tipped paws could be amazingly clever when needed, and he wondered how it could be possible that humans could have met the Whistlers before and not realized their innate intelligence. 

Once reasonably sure what their plan was, and upon further discussion with Drizzle about the landmarks his friends had given him, they realized that they might need to continue on the river at least through the night. They decided to begin sleeping in shifts early in order to always have one or the other of the boys awake during the night, ready with a pole to fend off from any rocks. Ethan's excitement was such that he even convinced Tom to ferret out whatever preserved foods they had left and eat them cold rather than waste time tying up to the bank in order to have a fire and cooked food. They made as light a supper as they could manage, trying to save some to carry with them, although Ethan opined that it was high time they learned to live off the land. He had a theory that somehow their stomachs might learn to digest the local plants, if they could mix a bit more into their diet every day, though Tom had never heard anything to support this idea. 

It was the afternoon of the next day that Drizzle suddenly sat straight up, sniffing the wind, and trilled that they must stop, they must get to the shore immediately. "I nearly missed it! That damned little river that stinks is nearby, we may even have just passed it!" And with that he leapt into the water and began to tack upstream, apparently tasting the water. "Yes! Definitely! Tastes disgusting, just as they said!" he called back, and reversed direction to catch up with them as the boys did their best to move toward the bank and stop the raft. The trees were widely spaced, here, spreading their branches luxuriantly with no neighbours to speak of to crowd them, and each, though distant from the other, had a puddle of dark shade beneath. Within a short time they had created the drag frame, as outlined by Drizzle (using fabric for the sling rather than the traditional net of fibre rope), and far sooner than Tom could have wished they were faced with saying goodbye to their wagon and raft, their home for weeks. 

Ethan clapped a hand on Tom's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm sad to leave it, too. Still, we have a way to go before we get where we're going. And this will be real travelling, won't it? No more of this holiday of floating downriver, fishing and larking and having a bathe whenever we wish. We will need everything Drizzle has taught us and more, I should imagine." 

He looked ridiculously chuffed at the prospect, Tom thought, for someone who had never really known hard work, though he dismissed this from his mind as an unworthy thought. Ethan really did seem to want to learn to take care of himself. Also, at this moment, before they left, he had to make his decision about the fate of the raft. "The thing is, I'd hate to think of it just sitting there and sinking, everything still on it lost at the bottom of the river. I think we have everything off it which we will need. I hope so, as I don't think we'll want to turn back. But, do you think if we were to set it loose it might eventually be carried down to Eugenia? To be used by someone?"

"It might. It could also founder on the way there. However, I suppose if it stays here it will certainly never be of use. If it gets to someone... Oh! Do you think we should leave notes on it?"

"With any luck don't you think we'll reach Abernetty before any news of the raft could get back up the coast?" 

"Yes, perhaps," Ethan mused. "Probably, I imagine."

"Then I guess I don't know what I would say in a note." 

Ethan pursed his lips and nodded. "Well, then, I guess we should let it go. We've really got everything?"

"I think we've really got everything."

"You're not sure? I'm going to cut it loose, now, you have to be sure." Phipps grinned as he leaned as far toward the raft as he could reach, hoping to keep the longest part of the rope on the bank with them so they could take it along.

"Okay, I'm sure!" The hatchet came down on the rope where it lay against the raft with a thunk, and Tom watched the raft move away from the bank before he added, "I think."

"Too bad, we'll have to make do without it."

Their trek began uneventfully enough. For the first few days they were exhausted most of the time, walking most of the day, foraging for food as they went. Drizzle pointed out not only the plants that they could probably eat, but also animals that he supposed not to be sentient and guessed might be of Earth origin. They fell into a pattern where they slept in shifts, and the person on guard would tend the smoking rack so that they could have something to eat during the following day's walking. The ground seemed much harder and lumpier than the raft's surface had been, with its straw matting, and Tom found it awkward to fall asleep while Ethan stayed awake, watching over him. It probably would have been even more awkward if they had not, just before leaving, decided to take the tarpaulin from the wagon. This they had managed to fashion into something of a tent, which, when pitched correctly, kept out most rain. Having some barrier of sight helped, but it was still lonely not to have the other boy lying near, when he had become so used to it. And Ethan was charmingly willing to admit that he felt the same. 

After six days they felt they were getting to be rather good at this surviving business, just in time for things to get rather more complicated. 

They had chosen their camp site for the evening and Drizzle had set to work creating a fire-pit (he had proven to be quite good at scraping all the surface duff away, and was conscientious in the extreme about making sure the fire would be safe) while Ethan and Tom scavenged for wood in the falling dark. Tom had just found a likely-looking log and was contemplating the best way to attack it with the hatchett when he heard Drizzle's danger whistle, which allowed him a moment to turn, probably saving his life. He was hit and knocked down, but the creature's leap had been spoiled from a killing strike to a glancing blow of the claws. The hatchet was knocked from Tom's hand, but he managed to roll with it and come back up as far as his knees, unshipping the gun from his shoulder despite his one arm feeling much like dead wood. The beast (an elongated creature of probably the same mass as Phipps, covered in feathers in shades of browns and blue-greens) had also rolled and recovered, snarling in frustration - seemingly unhurried yet fluidly quick - and he had a moment to snap the gun up and crack off one quick shot. His arm, though, betrayed him, unwilling to hold the gun steady, and the shot went wide. For a moment he was certain his time had come, as the creature gathered it's haunches beneath it. Then, with a yell that echoed off the hills and the inside of Tom's skull, Phipps was between them, wielding a branch. At this the panther decided it had had enough, and turned it's tail on them, disappearing into the under-brush in a moment. 

Tom sat down rather heavily on the ground, and Ethan tossed his branch aside (it broke into three pieces as it hit the ground, rotted through) and ran to his side. He was saying something, but the numbness was spreading from Tom's arm up his shoulder and blackness was closing in from all sides. 

Dimly, through a rushing in his ears, Tom could hear that Ethan was speaking, nearly incoherent with grief, and though Tom's own body felt as unresponsive as a lump of wood he could distantly feel that he was being held close, and his face caressed and kissed. Wonder distracted him somewhat from his own terror, yet soon both faded with his consciousness.


	16. Consciousness and Self-Consciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom comes to his senses and Ethan displays some sensitivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't believe the temptation I experience to name this chapter "Senses and Sensitivity." :P :)

For an indeterminate amount of time he was only vaguely aware for short periods. He recalled later that he had been shaken and bounced about, and at other times Ethan returning to trickle water into Tom's mouth and massage it down his throat, speaking softly, encouragingly, warm and cajoling. Another time he became aware that he was cold, but soon Ethan returned again and wrapped them both in something and lay close, his body seeming burningly hot wrapped around Tom, his voice pleasant and soothing, making extravegant promises if Tom would return to him. 

The next moment of partial - and greater - consciousness came with a jolt of  
apprehension: voices of humans unknown to him. They seemed kindly and welcoming. Had they somehow found their way to Abernetty, or home? This would mean Ethan could no longer sleep beside him. It seemed cruel to have heard such sweet promises and have them taken away from him. Could Ethan really have been saying what he thought? The boy had seemed to find comfort in being close to Tom since they had been alone together. But now, other people. He was pulled back down into dreams unhappy, and dreamed of evil white arms of the dead holding him down, pulling him this way and that, and he unable to resist them. 

Then he found himself in a bed, lumpy, but somewhat better than lying on the ground, a warm body pressed as tightly to him as before, and he wondered at this, managing to stay closer to conscious for a longer while than he had in some time.

The next time he awoke he was able to open his eyes and move them. Ethan was not present at that moment, but Tom delighted in just being able to look around, listen, and think for a few minutes without losing the train of it in strange fancies. A roughly-built room; woven branches chinked with clay - sounds of humans nearby going about daily business; dishes clattering and a child shrieking. 

When Ethan entered the room, a little time later, and saw Tom's eyes open, he nearly dropped the tray he was carrying, spilling something from the wooden bowl before he managed to set it on a table. He dashed to Tom's side and managed to pull himself up short just as he reached for Tom's hand. "You're awake! How are you?" 

But Tom was still unable to move his face more than the slightest amount. After a moment's pause, during which Ethan's face fell a little, the boy rallied and said, "That's okay. At least you're much better than yesterday! You're alive, and I'm sure that means you'll be still better tomorrow. Drizzle..." He stopped himself and looked at the door, then leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. "He said I should not give up hope, that larger animals often survive to escape the panther's venom. 

"But I must speak quietly. He asked me not to let on to our hosts that he's  
anything more than a smart animal, for the time being. He wants to observe them. I know you'll say it's spying, but they are so strange, I don't really know what to expect from them next. 

"They have assigned me a young lady to help me and show me around, but she's not a servant - they don't seem to have servants, or anyone who gets much work done for that matter - and she... well, she's very nice. I'm just not used to their ways. She's certainly one of the best looking. Though that's not saying much, between you and me. They seem to have an inordinate number of people with various deformities, it's very sad. Do you know, though, they have even let me sleep in the bed with you? I slept on the floor the first night, and they seemed to think that amusing, and they just smile when they walk in and... uh." He dropped his gaze, but then flicked his eyes back, and his smile bloomed again. Although the paralysis did not allow him to speak, Tom realized that he must have some expressions, and that Ethan had grown used enough to him to be able to discern the slightest change and interpret it correctly. His fondness for the boy must be showing through.

"But here, I'm so excited that I've forgotten you must eat. Please don't be  
embarrassed," he continued, as he fetched the bowl, "I have had to feed you for a few days, and I'm quite used to it, but it will feel strange with you watching me. And I'm afraid it will feel strange to you, but it's the only way to make sure you don't starve, until you can feed yourself. I'm sure that will be soon." With that, Ethan pressed his lips together as though steeling himself and seized Tom's jaw in a firm, gentle hold, tugging his mouth open, tipped in a small spoonful of broth, closed his jaw again, and began to massage it down Tom's throat. Oddly, it was not at all a strange sensation - it was familiar, and brought back vague memories from the half-dreaming state he had been in. He wondered if this was what he had interpreted as caresses, and then he did feel embarassed. Had he misinterpreted how Ethan felt toward him? No, he thought not, if he could judge by the solicitous care. Somehow he did turn the touch, which was efficient and necessary and could have been cold and businesslike, into a sort of caress.

Meanwhile, of course, Ethan continued to talk - words always seemed to flow from him as effortless as breathing - and tell him about the colony they had stumbled upon. 

After the bowl was empty (little enough to Tom's stomach), Ethan apologetically said he supposed he needed to tell their hosts that Tom had regained consciousness. "I'll try to keep them out, though. I don't want you to feel like an exhibit. I'll only bring in Eversweet to help me."

 

The girl who had been assigned to them, Eversweet, seemed a small, listless thing, with drab brown hair and eyes. Despite her thin limbs, her belly protruded enough that Tom wondered at first if she was in a family way. Eventually, however, he decided to put it down to her poor posture. She seemed pleasant, though shy, perhaps put off by his condition and inability to speak to her or oven move to acknowledge her presence. A wave and a small "hello" were all he got of a greeting, and then she looked to Phipps for guidance, her hesitant smile fading into expectation. 

He set to work, with her help, moving Tom's limbs, explaining that the village doctor had an idea this would help the poisons move out of the body and rejuvinate Tom's muscles from their stagnation of the past few days. Eversweet seemed happy to help, but within minutes said she was tired. 

"Can you try to keep on a little longer?" Ethan asked, an edge of annoyance in his voice that was plain to Tom. 

She seemed surprise. "Sure. I guess." From then on she watched Ethan closely, seemingly waiting for signs that they would soon be finished, but sweat glistened on her brow before he consented to stop. She smiled a little shakily as she sat on the one rough stool in the room and mumbled, "I suppose this will be good for me, as well," and Ethan gave her a bare word of praise for her work, but let her rest only a few minutes before beginning again. He seemed not to notice or care about exhaustion, engrossed in the task before him.

...

That evening Tom woke as Ethan entered the room with a candle. Ethan smiled at his open eyes a little anxiously, set down the candle and blew it out, but then took only his boots off and lay fully clothed upon the top of the blankets. He lay stiff and restless, eventually got up and slid, still fully clothed, beneath only the uppermost blanket, laying flat on his back, and eventually he snored gently, while Tom lay beside him, able only to wonder at why the boy was pulling away from him. When he had thought Tom completely insensate he had lain as close as the bark to the tree, as the old song went. Several thoughts occurred to him, the most frightening of which being that for some reason Ethan really did not feel all the things Tom had thought. Possibly he had dreamed the things he thought he'd heard the boy promising. He drifted in and out, the white arms returned to his dreams. 

When light dawned, however, it was revealed to be Ethan's arm and leg wrapped over his friend, and Tom basked in this token of his regard for a few minutes before the boy woke, raised himself quickly up on one arm and began to apologize. 

Tom's throat gurgled and popped before his rusty vocal cords could clear themselves, but they responded eventually and he managed to whisper, 'It's all right."

"What?"

"It's good." And then when Ethan still stared as though transfixed, he continued, "It's nice? I like it?"

A smile bloomed, finally, and he fell upon Tom, hugging him tightly. "You can speak!" 

"I can speak. And it's only fair you warm me up when I'm cold. I did the same for you, remember."

Ethan seemed able to do little more than laugh with joy for a few moments, though he gasped out, "You're okay!"

"Only thanks to you. You did amazingly."

"Really?" Ethan raised himself again as though he were so surprised that he needed to get a good view on Tom to see if he were telling the truth.

"Of course really! I'm very impressed." It sounded wholly inadequate to how he felt, but it was the best he could manage. He was not a person of words. How could he say, (without insulting this person who had just proven himself to be the closest, strongest, most dependable friend he had ever had) that only a few weeks before he had thought of Ethan as a useless, spoiled and arrogant brat, and now he saw before him a resourceful and intelligent young man who had taken on the responsibility of caring for a complete invalid (with all the messy personal business that entailed) in the midst of a trackless wilderness, and brought them both out alive? "Very impressed," he contented himself with repeating.

"I just did what I had to."

"But you figured out what you had to do. And you kept your head. Many people would not have."

"Drizzle helped with that. He told me you probably weren't dead, and so long as I could get some water into you there might be a chance."

"And you took that slim hope and worked with it. I think there's few people who could have." His voice was creaky and slow, requiring a great deal of effort. "And I hate to even think of the things you probably had to do for me."

"Don't mention it. Really, don't. Because I don't want to think about it, either." Ethan flashed his cheeky grin again. "But I shall continue until you're able to take care of yourself. I won't let you over to anyone else. I won't even have them in here the while."

Tom couldn't have pulled his gaze away from Ethan's face at that moment if he had wanted to. It was such a delight to see the boy so happy that he found himself straining to lean up toward the boy, and suddenly Ethan had met him in the middle and quickly touched their lips together, just for a moment, before he bounced back as though burned. "Oh!" said Tom. Then, "I haven't cleaned my teeth for days!"

Ethan collapsed against him in gales of laughter again, and just lay holding him close and giggling until Eversweet poked her head through the door curtain to see what was going on, smiled benevolently, and said she would fetch Tom some solid food.


	17. Learning to Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is far from done. And really the rest of this note is blah blah blah excuses. I posted it and moved on. I was having trouble keeping continuity where I've been so long between opportunities to write, so I thought I would download this all onto my Nook and be able to refer back to it easily and write my edits when I don't want to carry reams of paper around. Also, I wanted a backup because too many people were losing their work during NaNo and it made me scared. ;)

Initially Tom was completely dependent on Ethan to push him around in a wheelchair, and this was humiliating to him, but he was reasonably good at swallowing his pride and putting a good face on things; one could never survive in the working class in Victoria City if one weren't excellent at wearing the mask. However, he was also very determined to be able to stand on his own feet, and Ethan was ever ready to help him toward this goal, and within just a few days he was able to walk yet again, though haltingly at first.

During this time he became acquainted with the citizens of this tiny village, The Tribe, as they called themselves. Their self-appellation sounded barbaric, yet they personally struck him as anything but. In fact, he thought that in many ways they seemed to him far superior people to spend time with. They were kind and generous to their guests with a simplicity that made Tom feel accepted in a way he had never experience before. Ethan had already noted to him that their hosts seemed not to mind if he slept in the same bed with Tom, and he later pointed out that Eversweet did not seem the least bit surprised to find them cuddled together, laughing, when she walked in to the room. 

When she first left the room, saying that she was going to get him some solid food now that he could chew, Ethan commented on that fact, and went on to press the issue, though saying he did not want to make Tom nervous. 

"Does it bother you that I want to kiss you?"

"No," said Tom. "I guess it's not really the usual thing, but it happens."

"It happens? Is it just something that happens in your world? It's not so very bad?"

Tom shrugged a bit uncomfortably. He wasn't sure at all if they were making sense to each other, or if they might be talking at cross-purposes. "What the pastor and our parents always warned boys about was not getting girls pregnant and starting families before it was time."

"And what about when it is time? To get married and have children?"

"Plenty of people have children. Some people stay aunts and uncles and help their brothers and sisters with their children. My mother has been saying she thinks I'll find a girl, soon. She loves grandchildren, but she already has some. I guess there's no hurry."

Ethan was sitting up, cross-legged beside him on the bed, and holding one of Tom's hands on his knee. He now seemed engrossed in tracing the contours of that hand. "I do feel as though we come from quite different worlds, sometimes. It's expected that everyone will marry and have children in my family and those of our... class. Boys having feelings for boys, it's just something you do in school. It's frowned upon, but most often people will look the other way. And then you're expected to grow out of it, because you must have children. At least half the people who marry can't stand their spouse and barely spend enough time in each other's company to have a few offspring. I think my father knows I won't grow out of it. I'm sure I won't. And I certainly don't think I'll grow out of how I feel for you. I can't imagine I could, or would want to. You're the best person I've ever met."

Tom seized his hand and squeezed it. He could not smile at this praise, it seemed too heartfelt, but he had no idea how to respond to it. He was just a common person, he wasn't anything special. Well, it didn't matter, he decided. What mattered now was trying to live up to this tall order. Surely Ethan would realize soon that he was simply common, though. "I'm sure there's no hurry at all for me to have children. My mother will be content with all the little ones my brothers and sisters will give her."

"Could I live with your family, do you think? They seem, from all you say about them, so nice."

"They're my family, and I think they're some of the best. I'm sure they would be happy to make room for you. You might not be all that comfortable in their living quarters, we don't have the nicest places."

"Perhaps I could have all of your family come live with me, and toss my own family out." Ethan smiled a little sadly as he said this, and just then Eversweet returned with a tray holding two bowls of hearty stew.

She left them to it, excusing herself as having things to do, though Tom wondered if she didn't look rather longingly at their food as she turned away. It tasted a bit like mutton, and he cleaned his bowl and wished he had more, but realized he would not in any circumstance ask for more. 

"I don't know if I would ever have had the courage to say what I have to you so far," Ethan continued, after they had eaten, "Except that you have been so very kind to me, and then Eversweet's people have also seemed to think that it didn't matter at all. They seemed to know exactly how I felt about you, immediately, and didn't even bother making up two separate beds. And when I watch them, I think there might be a few people who are similar, although they all seem to be trying to have children." 

"What is this conversation?" Drizzle asked, having entered just that moment as quietly as a trundling brown mist.

"I'm sorry, I..." Ethan looked at Drizzle rather uncomfortably. "It's a little personal."

The Whistler cocked his head and looked at them speculatively. "If I didn't know better I'd say it was part of your courtship. Somehow you two have that look about you."

"And what do you know about human courtships?"

"I've been watching the two of you long enough, and now I have other humans to watch. Humans sit in certain ways to each other, and their voices take on particular tones, not all that unlike what People do. What I don't understand is why you seem so uncomfortable about it all. Isn't it quite natural for young adults to mate up or form groups?"

Tom nodded.

"I suppose it is natural for males and females," Ethan replied in the language of Drizzle's people. "But my people always told me it was not natural for males with males, or females with females." 

"What ridiculousness is that? The people here don't seem to think that way at all."

"I know, this is something I find very interesting! Have you watched them a lot? Are there, as I think, some groups of adults who live together and raise children, and seem to have a loving relationship between people of same ... type?" 

"It is so, I feel sure of it," said Drizzle. "I have seen Always Gentles's father with another man, and this man also with the mother of Always Gentle, and they seem all very kind and warm to each other. I think that his child is a younger boy by another woman who lives at the other side of the ... burrow. They interact well, but more distantly, and the boy is not healthy." 

Tom guessed that 'Always Gentle' was how he had translated 'Eversweet' into his own language. So that meant both of Eversweet's parents had some sort of close relationship with another man? He wondered if Drizzle were just guessing, perhaps mistaken.

However, they eventually found this to be the case when talking with the people of The Tribe over the few weeks that the boys remained with them. It was a very small village, as has been stated before, and therefore examples were few, but the people readily discussed their efforts to procreate and the very bad luck they had been having with reproduction, seeming uninterested in or uncomprehending of the morality which Victoria Colony had taught its sons regarding conversation on such topics. The Tribe felt that the topic of procreation was a vital one, as they were having extremely bad luck with it. Many pregnancies did not come to term, as Eversweet's mother explained to the boys, many babies were born weak and did not survive long, and of those that did there were often various defects. She was unflinching of the topic of making sure there were as many combinations of genes as possible, as The Tribe had adopted this policy as seeming the best suited to their survival.

Eversweet's mother was older than Tom's; she looked old as a grandmother to him, as his own mother (actually a grandmother) did not, and she went by the name of Pearl. She told them, as she sat cutting up vegetables, and they helping her, Tom still in the wheelchair, that general belief was that they had started with too few people, and began getting too inbred right away. Then they had illness every Winter, and lost more people. Then, when the youngest were coming of age, there had been a rash of very bad sunburns, and most people who had been burned had a variety of strange children born to them; children with their legs fused together, some with no arms or other parts missing or strangely shaped. Some of this group were still living, and more had continued to be born. In fact he had met a person with two heads that very morning, though he was not sure whether to call them two people, as they spoke independently of each other. They were named Perseverance and Steven, and Pearl began to speak on the topic to the boys because Tom was startled upon this person, or people, walking in unexpectedly. Tom had managed to hide his surprise fairly quickly, he thought, and he hoped that Persy-and-Steven might not have noticed, having just entered a darker room from the bright outdoors. 

He-or-they sat and talked for a bit in the desultory fashion that The Tribe often exhibited, discussing where wild vegetables had been found, the possibility of the Sheppard letting the Butcher slaughter a goat, soon, and the fact that Glory's pregnancy was showing and might last. His real goal, of course, was to see the boys, as they were nearly as much strange monsters to him as he might seem to them, being from far away. Both heads seemed to have trouble tearing their eyes away from Ethan and Tom, and whenever one was talking the other seemed to dart his eyes back and forth between the two, interested in their expressions or opinions, smiling and nodding in a very friendly fashion. Both Persy and Steven had a dozen questions to ask about how they had come to this place, their homes, their families, the source of their Colony, and each answer brought on two more questions. 

They had already answered many of these questions from other visitors who had stopped 'by chance' to bring Pearl a few roots or herbs. It seemed that The Tribe were all determined to meet Tom and see more of Ethan, who had remained near his side during the time that he was unconscious, and had been protected from company as a guest.

Pearl, however, was sensitive to slight changes in expressions, and had learned much about Tom in a very short time, and after Persy-and-Steven left she said she wished she had thought to prepare him to meet the more unusual people of The Tribe. "We're so used to them that it seems hardly to be something to be spoken of, you know. They're just people. However, for the good of future generations we do ask them to refrain from having children. After watching the grief so many of us go through losing the babies, they seem not to mind that much." She looked down as she said this, and Tom wondered how many children she herself had lost. "They don't always listen to that advice, and it's usually even worse for them when they try. Any rate, we shouldn't talk about such sad subjects. Some children are perfect, like my little Eversweet. She's the dearest girl. She might be ready to have her own children, soon. We're all looking forward to seeing more little ones."

Though she was trying to turn the conversation to things she thought more pleasant, there was something terrifying about her sad desire for grandchildren, and Tom found these last few comments the most distressing of the entire discussion thus far. She wasn't at all like Tom's mother, who enjoyed the young ones a great deal; no, Pearl yearned deeply for grandchildren, not only for herself but for the survival of The Tribe. And he suspected she was not at all alone. Several of the visitors had asked if the boys had siblings, and how many, and were their parents still living. 

From the conversations they had over the next several days they learned many things about The Tribe. They had escaped religious persecution a hundred years before by buying their small plot to colonize on Pax with all the money that could be scraped together by their ancestors, who had unfortunately gone for a cheaper plot and had not had enough money left over to outfit the colony well. They considered it a major feat to not have all died out already, given that their first buildings (which they described as something created with bubbles and foam, much to the boys confusion) had crumbled and their electronic books had ceased to function. Scores upon reams of cloth, bark, and scraped hide had been employed to try to copy out the last electronic books before they ceased to function, and they had attempted to house those all in a central hall which had also served as a communal kitchen, which subsequently caught fire. All the writings which could be salvaged had been copied yet again and distributed amongst the people to keep in their individual huts. These events had been hugely demoralizing, and had broken their connection to the past irreparably. All that remained were oral stories about a planet they had escaped, a high technology society with extremes of wealth and poverty, where the proto-Tribe was badly treated and reviled. 

With no skills at working with their hands, and no books to draw from, The Tribe had been thrown on their own, and had to learn how to build from first principles. Though they had managed basic wattle and daub huts, they did not have much energy or spare time to spend doing a great deal more engineering, because the business of survival took up all their time. Their ancestors had not had a concept of what wilderness meant, and had brought a limited amount of seed vegetables and frozen animals, and all which remained of the animals were the goats - hardy, shaggy creatures with great, swooping horns which The Tribe lived in a sort of symbiotic relationship with. The goats provided meat, wool and milk, and the people of The Tribe adored them, allowed them to do exactly as they liked and go wherever they preferred, only very rarely asking them to learn to pull a cart, and slaughtered them only when necessary, with a great deal of ceremony. Tom realized that the stew which he had eaten as his first solid meal was a gift which meant something to their hosts.

The job of slaughtering and butchering was one for which they chose the person with great care, and the individual who had this heavy, burdensome task was accorded all honour and closely watched for signs of insanity or undue violent tendencies. The current Butcher was the most steely-eyed man the boys had yet met in the village, and he and the Sheppard were the most muscled and tough-looking, having to run with the goats and sometimes capture and hold them.

One of the first excursions Tom attempted, at Drizzle's suggestion, with Ethan's help, and Eversweet as their official guide (though Drizzle by now knew exactly where he was going, they continued to pretend he was only a pet), was to visit the site of the first buildings of the colony, a stroll which Tom would normally have found easy but with his muscles still recovering he found he had to rest several times along the rocky and uneven path uphill. There was very little left there to see when they got there, merely yellow, crumbling material which did, indeed, appear to be a sort of hardened foam, laid out in large, overlapping circles across the rock at the top of a small hill. Some vegetation grew up through here and there, but it seemed that the foam had killed most growth for quite some time and the plants were only recently coming back as the last toxicity was leaching out. 

"Has this stuff been affecting the pond as well, do you think?" Tom wondered, crumbling a chunk between his fingers. 

Ethan nodded. "Though there are plenty of other factors, I feel sure. They have privies quite near the pond, and I'm fairly certain that I saw someone tanning a hide nearby the water the other day."

"Is this bad?" Eversweet asked.

"You don't have many fish in this pond, do you?" Ethan asked.

"I suppose we must not have as many as we did. Stories say there were many when we first came here, but I thought perhaps that was just stories. You know how stories are."

"Then I think that, yes, this could be bad. Our colony has laws about containing water which has been used for things, and filtering it before letting it back into the ground or any ponds, and also about keeping privies at certain distances from wells or streams, or using containment methods and filtering for that waste. It's all very complicated and I can't say I understand it, but I know it has to do with public health and the usefulness of fields and water sources."

"We followed a stream from the river which we were lost down," Tom said, "And there was some difference about the water in that stream. I couldn't say just what it was. A little bad taste, perhaps." He looked at Drizzle, wishing he could use him as a reference, and then thought of a way he might be able to. "I wasn't really sure myself, but Drizzle seemed not to like it."

"There is a different taste between the water in the pond and the water from the Flowing Spring. We bring water from there for cooking or drinking. Usually. Sometimes we're in a hurry." She looked troubled as she thought about this. "Do you think that's why sometimes people get sick?"

"It could be," said Tom.

"It could also... I hate to say it," Ethan looked grave, "But it might contribute to some of the problems with having children. I don't know for sure, but I think I read something as to that being part of why we have such strict rules."

Eversweet looked stricken by this news. "I have drunk that water, sometimes! Oh! I have swum in the pond, and washed clothes, and cooked with it! Oh!" She sat down heavily on a rock and curled her arms around her stomach, staring at the yellow foam under her feet. "I had so looked forward to having children! Well, I have always been afraid of it, too, because some girls don't survive it. A girl died only last year, and she had been so healthy, too. Everyone had hopes of her having many healthy children, and then she just died. But I want to try!"

Tom stepped over and patted her shoulder, awkwardly. 

"It might not be that bad!" said Ethan, kneeling next to her and putting a hand on her knee. "Only drink only good water for a while before you get pregnant, then whatever could be in it - and I'm not saying there's anything for sure! - will have time to leave your body. You'll have as good or better a chance than anyone of having healthy children! Anyone can tell you will make a fine mother, and your children will be lovely! Perfect and smart!"

She wiped at her eyes and gathered herself, then looked up at Ethan. "Do you really think so?"

"I'm sure of it!"

"How long, do you think, before I should start trying?"

"What?"

"You seem to have a great deal of knowledge about these things."

"No, not really." Ethan looked up at Tom in bewilderment.

"A couple of years at least," Tom found himself saying, after a brief consideration. "You're not yet as tall as your mother, and your hips are not as wide. I have heard my mother and her friends talk about this kind of thing, before. They say girls need to be fully grown to safely have babies."

"Oh dear, yes, I have heard that as well. But I really hoped..." she looked between the two of them, and then back at the ground. "Mm, so... Did you... do you think that maybe making new privies, further away from the pond, might help?"

"It might," said Ethan. "It might. And if we could arrange a filtering system and a holding tank for dirty water."

Tom nodded. "That's something we can work on to help out, as repayment for your hospitality. The activity will help me recover faster, I'm sure of it. Digging a few holes is exactly what I need."

Eversweet smiled up at him, and Ethan also seemed pleased, and Tom felt he'd made exactly the right decision.

That very afternoon they began discussing the plan with the older people in the village. Some were quite resistant to the idea, and one even set his mouth and said that their ways had always been good enough before. However, general consensus was that it was worth trying, and couldn't hurt, particularly if the boys were offering to do most of the work themselves, as a gift. There was much discussion about what was the most convenient place to have privies for each house, and would this mean laying the paths out differently. Rough maps were drawn and distances estimated; Ethan found he did not know exactly what distances were required by the codes in Victoria Colony, but he only admitted that privately to Tom, later on. In the group discussion he forged ahead with aplomb and apparent confidence, and the positions of the first few new privies were soon staked out. 

Tom still moved slowly and tired quickly, he fell asleep each evening exhausted and woke each morning stiff, but happy, with Ethan curled next to him, and worked happily with Ethan and Eversweet spelling him out and staying near or bringing him food and water, or him doing the same for them. They dug holes as quickly as they could, and when Eversweet was not watching Drizzle worked nearly as hard, tossing a shower of dirt and loosening soil that their shovels of fire-hardened wood had a hard time biting into. 

Drizzle had no particular investment in their project, he thought the humans who lived in this village really should take care of this themselves, but he enjoyed helping his friends, and he enjoyed burrowing, it was what he was built for. "But," he reminded them, "we are now weeks behind the Grey Ones." 

The boys had almost forgotten The Walking Hills, they had become so engrossed in learning about the village and making friends there - or at least one good friend, Eversweet, who continued to live up to her name despite the hard work. Most other people, though as kind as ever, seemed to not only accept them but to begin to ignore them as almost a fixture as the days went on, now that they had learned a little bit about the boys and assuaged their initial curiosity. They knew everyone's name, and everyone knew them, and it wasn't until they were almost done with their project that they began to realize how much the village had, in fact, accepted them as being fixtures. 

The rest of the village had not entirely left them to do the project by themselves; a small cadre of young men and women, when not busy with gardens or foraging or repairing their own houses, would drop by one of their holes and create the wattle-and-daub structure over it which would make it a privy, and one of this group, a woman named Maryan who had a fine young boy running in her wake at all times, finally asked them where there own was going to be, and how they wanted their hut laid out. 

"Our hut?" Tom asked, in surprise. "We don't need one of our own. We've been staying with Eversweet and her family." (For by now it was patently clear to him that Pearl, Joksen and Mikhail were a family.) 

"It must be getting a little close by now. It's not a large place for so many. You don't want to wait until you have little ones on the way before thinking of building."

"We're not planning to have children, here. We're not planning to stay here much longer. We have to get back to our home and our families."

She blinked at him and looked a little hurt. "We had all hoped... Well, we settled you in with Eversweet for a reason, you know. She didn't tell you? Her mother said nothing?"

Tom shook his head, dumfounded. It was dawning on him exactly what she was implying, and he was too shocked to even begin to say that he had no such intentions.

Ethan and Eversweet, returning with food and water, called a hello from a little distance, and Drizzle hooted in laughter, nearby. Tom glared at Drizzle, then waved to his friends. 

Maryan looked very troubled. "Why continue on? Why leave us? Eversweet is a nice girl, isn't she?" 

"She's very nice, I like her a lot. I've never met a girl I liked better." He realized with a start that this was the full truth. She fit neatly and comfortably with him and Ethan, though he felt no particular desire to hold her close to him as he did with Ethan. At the moment Ethan took up all of his warmest thoughts, and he had spared none for Eversweet. She was merely stolid and dependable, not a source of that particular spark. 

He gave Maryan a quick nod that was meant to tell her that this conversation really ought to be over, and was grateful that she looked at Ethan and Eversweet approaching, quirked her mouth in evident displeasure, and took the hint. 

"I can only hope you will change your mind," she said. "I feel sure it will be a long trip back to your home. You might never make it."


	18. End of an Idyll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and feedback are more than welcome.

"What a disgusting - they can't be serious!" Ethan whispered, harshly appalled in the darkness where they curled on their meagre pallet.

"I think they are. This is deadly serious for them." 

"But to be used for... no, I can't even contemplate it. And I won't let them do that to you!"

Tom wanted to protest that it did make sense to him why their hosts needed this service from them, but at this moment the need in Ethan's insistent kisses pushed that argument aside, and when asked if he was not Ethan's he answer that of course he was. And he meant it.

Later Ethan whispered ever so quietly, so that Tom was not quite sure he'd heard it, "Be ready tomorrow. No goodbyes."

Tom moved through his next day of digging and building in a preoccupied daze, and more than once he came very close to telling Eversweet. It seemed so wrong to keep anything so monumental from a friend, someone he'd come to like a great deal, a stolid and dependable person who had taken such good care of him and Ethan with hard work when he was at his most helpless. She cared about her family and people, as much as anyone he'd ever known, quite possibly more, because there were so few of them, they were so imperilled. She was a good person, and he wanted to help her and her tribe because they had helped him and Ethan so greatly. It seemed wrong to abandon them, even though he wanted to get back home to his family. He was weighing this in his mind, realizing that he had lost some of the impetus he had held to return to Victoria City. Why would this be? His family still needed him as much as they ever had; he was a bread-earner and his siblings' children needed his support, and he owed it to them first because of genetics and love and duty. And yet he had a chance for something else, here - a chance to have Ethan, openly, which he knew he never could at home in the colony, and a chance to help people who needed him, in particular, even more than his own family did. But his family still had his previous duty, and he loved them and missed them. It was terribly confusing.

Late in the afternoon, as they were digging a holding area for used water and had been left alone for a while, Eversweet began to wonder at Tom's extended silences and preoccupied air, and she finally ventured to ask him what was wrong, and he found himself looking at her and not knowing where to start, then surprised by hearing himself saying "I feel... I shouldn't tell you... I like you. I like you a lot."

 

"Oh!" she said, and looked away bashfully. 

The digging had been difficult, in a rocky, stubborn hillside, and sweat had made a smear of mud across her cheek. They both wore ragged clothing which would surely have been cast-offs in Victoria City, stiff with mud from weeks of similar work, and he thought for a moment that he had never seen a girl so attractive. Without urging this favoured daughter of the Tribe had thrown herself in wholeheartedly and cheerfully to Ethan's schemes for clean water and had attempted with her meagre strength to match Tom's physical efforts. She had gained perceptibly in strength over the weeks, therefore. Again, and worse then ever, he despised himself for considering abandoning her without even saying goodbye. The changes he and Ethan had made to their water use and waste treatment would help her family's health and that of her potential children, but would it be enough? And who would father her children? Was there a chance that some other non-relative might arrive in the town in the next few years? And what sort of man would he be? A bandit, a cut-throat, like the killers who had attacked them at the ford? What would her life turn out like if that were the case? 

He stretched out a hand and touched her shoulder. "Look, I don't know what," and she was turning back toward him, when Ethan came around the bend in the path and stopped dead in his tracks, a complex series of expressions passing over his face in rapid succession; startlement, something like fear or desperation, anger, and an attempt to turn all that into something else.

"Drizzle's run off - chased by something, I think. We have to go find him!"

"What? I just saw him a few minutes ago," Tom started, but Ethan snapped out, "We need to go now!" and, knocking the shovel from his hand, turned and started to jog off through the brush. 

A flush of anger started Tom after him with the intention, at first, of catching him a cuff to teach him not to be so rude, but Phipps - healthier and lighter - had a turn of speed which Tom could not match, and he could not catch up. When Tom began to slow down, labouring along the goat trail, Ethan realized it and slowed down as well, keeping within sight but always far enough ahead that a quick burst of extra speed for long enough to catch up would be more than Tom could manage, and he went on until Tom was gasping and finally stopped, defeated and leaning over to grasp his knees. Ethan loped back to him carrying, now, two knapsacks which he must have grabbed up from some hiding place along the way, and thrust one into Tom's hands. It was a simple drawstring style, lumpy with it's load, all that could be found among the Tribe, and only slightly padded by a couple of small blankets which Phipps had somehow contrived to tie such that they would carry between pack and back. 

"Put it on and let's GO!" 

Tom obeyed with his mouth set in a thin line, and plucked his coat from where it was badly bundled across Ethan's shoulder. "You've stolen from our hosts." 

"We would have eaten and used all this and more in the next week, anyhow. In long long run I'm saving them a loss, right? I'm removing two more mouths to feed."

"You can justify anything to yourself, can't you?"

"And what happened to your burning desire to get back to your family!? No, wave a pretty girl in front of you and you're forgetting all about duty and all that guff!"

Tom's mouth opened. It wasn't that way at all! He was fairly certain of that, after having thought about it so carefully, earlier in the day.

Ethan gave him a contemptuous snort and was off again, walking this time, but walking quickly and purposefully. 

"Wait! What about Drizzle? He wants to see Abernetty, you know that."

Ethan stopped, but didn't turn around right away.

"You can't leave him there. They might eat him with us gone."

Still with his back to Tom, Ethan rubbed his face and eyes, hard. "Look. He'll take care of himself. He'll go back to his own people."

"He's our friend. You can't desert him. And anyway, who will translate for the us with the Walking Hills, if we ever find them?" 

"I learned how to speak Whistler. I can figure this out, too."

"Maybe if we just pause here, he might catch up with us. Give us a chance to rest. What can it hurt?"

"What if THEY catch up with us and take us back?"

"Do you think they honestly would? I don't know as they'd bother. They're awfully lazy. But anyway, if we hide some place. Look, come sit down. What about up here?" Tom waived up the slope. Ethan shook his head, but found a way up the hill. Tom found him sitting with his knees curled up tight to his chest in a little patch of low growing stuff surrounded by brush, his pack dropped beside him. Tom lay his coat down, spread wide. 

"Come sit with me." 

Ethan sullenly squirmed over onto the coat, but stayed curled tightly in on himself.

"What's going on? Really?"

Phipps rubbed his eyes again. "I can't..." 

Tom put an arm around him and pulled him to lean in close, and Ethan sighed and put his head against Tom's shoulder.

"Look, I've never had anyone all to myself before. I don't want to share."

Tom smoothed the boy's curly hair back from his temple. "Oh. Sorry." He decided that was all he should say for a while, and they sat in silence while he continued to smooth Ethan's head.

"I just thought..." Tom started again, hesitantly, "At least we could have been together and all. I mean, what are we going to have when we get back?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I keep thinking that I'm going to figure something out. At least at home I have some money. I mean I will have, someday. But what would we have had with the Tribe? Used for breeding stock and watching kids die? Watching everyone die. Maybe catching something ourselves with all their rounds of sickness? We might have helped them a little, but I doubt we could ever have solved all their problems. They're dying a slow death."

Tom nodded slowly and hugged Ethan closer to him. "There must be something we can do, though. They are kind and good people, if lazy and undisciplined." 

"What they need most is to learn to help themselves properly."

"But they're... they've gotten too overwhelmed."

Ethan wrapped both arms around Tom and snuggled into him. "You have the biggest heart. We'll try to do something as soon as we can. When we get back we'll send someone to bring them to civilization."

Tom was silent. It didn't seem the ideal answer but he could not think of another at the moment. The Tribe needed skills and resources that they currently did not have, and taking them to Victoria colony seemed as though it might be the only way to break their downward spiral. 

Ethan lifted his head. "I think I hear him."

"Drizzle?"

"Yes." He let whistled the "Here I am!" signal and cocked his head for an answer. 

Faintly, in the distance, Tom could now hear the response as well, though he could not have been sure it was not a bird. It did seem to be replying to Ethan, though, so he imagined they'd be seeing their friend in a matter of a few minutes. Then he recognized the notes that meant "female" and "with/alongside".

"Is Eversweet with him?"

"I think she is. Dammit!" Then, "Keep her away!" he whistled.

"Alone. Hasn't told any of the others," came back.

"We need to move! Now!" Ethan had snatched up his pack and was off again, disappearing into the brush. Tom took a moment to shrug on his long coat as easier to carry that way, and followed him, struggling into the strings of his knapsack. This time they struck up a scree slope, and then a wash, and at every possibility of cover Ethan was keeping his head well down, so Tom tried to play in kind. It took quite a long while of this before he could convinced Ethan to stop again for a brief rest under the shade of some scrubby trees which had managed to grow a little despite the predations of the goats. Tom still had little stamina after his illness and was sweating like a horse under his coat in the full sun of the open countryside. 

"What is the hurry?" Tom hissed. "She hasn't brought anyone with her."

 

"She might not have, but they're sure to notice her missing. And you know when we were talking about most of the tribe being undisciplined and lazy? There are a few who are not. I noticed one of the Butcher's daughters - the one with the wrinkly, grey skin - watching me, today. And then later the Sheppard. I don't know if they realized I was making a lot of trips; I tried to carry everything in my pockets and assemble it only where I was hidden, but I don't know that I wasn't observed. And that place we were sitting was quite near where I had hidden these things, not more than a hundred yards away. Listen, most of the Tribe are soft and kind, but I don't mind telling you, the Butcher and his family seem like they can do some harm. Maybe the Sheppard, too."

"They wouldn't let them do anything bad."

"Oh? You don't think? I think that the rest are able to act so soft because they have him to carry out their dirty work for them. Was anyone watching you during the day?"

Tom thought back. He'd been so preoccupied he didn't really know if anyone seemed to be hanging around or keeping an eye on him, and he shook his head before recalling, "I did see that doctor-priestess woman, once. What do they call her?"

"Shaman. That's bad. She's the one most likely to think ahead. Remember when we were at their council meeting talking about privies and such, she was the one who supported my arguments the most."

"Well then she likes you, that might not be bad."

"No, don't think she cares a bit about you and me as people. She likes what we can do for her people. She won't want us to leave. Regardless of whether Eversweet or Drizzle think that they are followed, they might be."

"But what can we do?"

"I don't know." He shook his head and stared into the middle-distance. "Tom, I hate it, but we might need to speak to her and ask her if she can lie for us."


	19. Haring or Herring

The sun was nearing the horizon, settling over the low, rolling, open hills which surrounded the small lake of the Tribe when Ethan lifted his head and gave a querying whistle, to which he received an answer sounding closer than they had expected.

"What are you playing at?" Drizzle asked.

"Any chance you're followed?"

"Unlikely."

Ethan looked to Tom and waited. There wasn't time to talk about the morality of asking people to lie, and it seemed highly unlikely that any bad consequences would come to Eversweet for having done so; she was a favoured child of the Tribe, she would be safe from punishments if anyone were, and the Tribe as a whole did not seem long on punishments. He gave the nod and Ethan whistled, "Lead her to us, we'll explain later."

Within a few minutes she had joined them under the scrubby trees, which grew sheltered and well hidden in a steep gully. "What happened to you? Did you get lost? Are you okay?" She scanned them anxiously, paying particular attention to Tom, as he was sitting on the slope.

"We're fine. Is there any chance anyone has followed you?" The stern cast to Ethan's face seemed unnecessary to Tom, and Eversweet quailed a little, unused to harshness as she was.

"N-no, I don't think so."

"Did you tell anyone - anyone at all - that you were coming out here?"

"No, nobody. I saw Drizzle a few minutes after you left and I thought, well, you would never find him if he was there. I told him you'd gone off looking for him and he sat up and chirped. It was almost like he understood me, so I pointed out which way, and he sniffed around and had your trail in a nano. So I followed him."

"And you haven't answered me yet, what do you mean by leaving me behind?" Drizzle whistled at Ethan. Ethan sternly ignored him, glaring at Eversweet, so Drizzle looked to Tom.

"We thought you would be able to track us," Tom began to whistle back, feeling it was a completely inadequate answer in which the Whistler would certainly detect the dissimulation.

"Do you make a habit of talking to animals, Miss Eversweet?" Ethan asked.

She looked to Tom, too, clearly wondering desperately what she had done which deserved such treatment. "Well, sure. I don't know a lot of animals, but Drizzle seems to understand."

"Yes, you've heard her do it before, Ethan, you know that," Tom interjected. "Lay off, will you?" And when that didn't get a response he rose and laid a hand on Ethan's arm. "Look, she's not responsible for any of this. You know that. If we want her help you need to start being a little more polite."

"How do you know she's not? It could have been her idea in the first place!"

"We don't have time for this! Look, Eversweet, do you mind lying?"

"What sort of lying? Really lying lying? I mean, I've never tried that, I don't think I'd be good at it."

"Did you know that everyone in your family was planning to marry you off to us?"

She dropped her eyes from Tom's. "I... though, I mean, they didn't really ask me or anything, but I got that impression. Yes. Is that lying?"

"I'd say!" Ethan blurted out. "You didn't tell us!"

"They didn't say anything to me! I just overheard snatches of conversation, nothing certain. I didn't even dare ask my mother!" She looked horribly uncomfortable. "I mean, not that I have anything against you, I like you both a lot. I guess maybe it would... work out. I haven't really known you all that long or anything."

Ethan blinked as though seeing her for the first time and his anger drained away.

"There, you see?" Tom said, not ungently, giving Ethan's forearm a little shake before letting his hand slip down into Ethan's. "She wasn't a party to it. Just matchmaker aunts such as you might get anywhere. No real harm done."

Ethan looked up at him. "Not yet. Anyway, we're not going back." He looked back to Eversweet. "If you'll help us escape, just lie for us and say you saw us only a short time ago, it won't be much of a lie, you just don't have to say where, then We'll get to Abernetty or Vic City and send help back. And then maybe you can meet someone else who might be a husband you'd prefer."

She frowned a little. "Do you think so?"

Tom smiled. "You're a pretty girl, I should think you'd have your pick."

"And what if you don't make it back?"

Tom's smile fell away. "I'm sure we will. Anyway, but now that you know that there is another colony perhaps your people could make it there if you went as a group." 

"A larger group would have a better chance," said Ethan.

"That's true." She frowned more deeply.

"But look, it's getting dark, it's going to be less likely you can get back home safely. Would you do us this favour and just let us have a head start before you let anyone know that we're gone?"

She thought about this for a few moments, but finally shook her head. "No. If a larger group has a better chance, I'm coming with you."

The boys stared, and then looked at each other, doubtfully. 

"Ethan, I do want to say, I'm sorry about the misunderstanding. I do like you both and I would never want to come between you and Tom. If you will take me along I promise to try to make myself scarce whenever possible and give you time alone."

This made both boys shift uncomfortably and look at their feet.

"But look," Tom began, "Why would you want to leave your home and your family? That's all I've been thinking about getting back to, and your people seem so pleasant and kind."

It was her turn to look at her feet uncomfortably. "I really don't want to talk about it. Please."

"You expect us to just accept that you suddenly want to leave with no reason?" Ethan asked. "How do we know you aren't just going to lead us in circles and bring us back to the village? Or leave a trail for them to find. I'll bet the Sheppard is good at finding trails in order to find a missing goat."

There was something growingly intense in her expression, in her stance, in the furrow of her brow, which started to worry Tom. Ethan was prodding a hornet's nest of emotion which had previously remained covered under her always gentle exterior.

"Believe me, the Sheppard and his friend the Butcher are the last people I want to find me! No, now that I know there are other people in the world, and maybe not so far, and I have trusted friends to travel with, there's NO way I want to be here! Sure, I'll miss my parents, but they... Look, why do you want to leave?"

"I don't want to be used as breeding stock," said Ethan.

"So how do you think I feel about it? You know how you said I should wait a couple more years before it would be safe? My mother knows that, but she's been prodding at me to get started for two years already! And the top of everyone's list, the guys they think I should accept first, are Bozen and Javiar."

Without stopping to think, Tom asked, "Who?"

Nearly in unison Ethan and Eversweet answered, "The Butcher and the Sheppard."

"What? They're old enough to be your father and then some," said Tom.

"But they're very healthy, they've each had a couple of viable kids. And why do you think I tried to stick around and be helping you all the time? Not just because I was encouraged to do so, no... at least if everyone thought I had a chance with you they hung back and didn't bother me. I was in your way a whole lot more than I know you wanted - and I'm sorry about that - but that way I could avoid being caught by one of them, alone. I was safe with you. I knew you weren't interested in me and I was happy with that. Very happy." Here she choked off, the words sticking in her throat. 

Tom awkwardly dropped Ethan's hand to reach out and pat her shoulder, touched lightly, and then withdrew his hand, afraid she might see it as 'pawing.' "Sorry," he mumbled, then looked to Ethan, who met his eye for what seemed like a full minute before nodding.

"Right." He rubbed his eyes. "They'll probably be chasing us anyway, but they certainly will if they think we've kidnapped you."

"You can't send her back!"

"I didn't say I was going to! Did I say I was going to? I'm just trying to figure out how to do this. How can we throw them off? Let me think." He turned away, plucked a twig to chew on, and slowly shifted into pacing. "We could go back..."

"Go back?"

"Hush, thinking. Go back, tell them we had a nice walk all together, got distracted, lost track of time, got a little lost, came to an understanding - use their own expectations against them - yes, came to an understanding, and tomorrow we will all want time alone. We'll have hours of head start before they think of following." 

"Doesn't this plan have one vital flaw?"

"What's that?"

"It puts us back in their power."

"Therefore completely confusing them. They'll relax their guard."

"If we have managed to give them the slip today, purely by dint of surprise, they'll never let us get away with that again. Besides which the Shaman will not be fooled for a moment."

"Probably true. All right, listen to this: We send Drizzle back with a note indicating we're all camping out together because we've seen the sense of their plan for us and want privacy to get well started on this procreating business."

"We can't send him all the way back, they'll follow him just like I did."

"I let her follow me because I was annoyed with you for leaving me." 

"Ugh, I'm sorry for that, I really wasn't thinking clearly."

"He was running in terror," Tom added with a little smile.

Eversweet was looking back and forth between the boys and Drizzle. "He does talk, doesn't he! Or you understand him, anyway! It's true, isn't it?"

Ethan buried his fingertips in his hair, gently massaging his scalp, as though he were developing a headache. "Yes, yes, it's true. He understands a lot of English and we can somewhat speak his language. And he says you were only able to follow him because he let you."

Tom sat down heavily on the slope. "I don't know. What about just continuing to hare off and hope we're lucky? I'm just too tired to go back, and sending Drizzle all the way back seems like too much work on him. Drizzle, do you think you can confuse our path for them?"

"I think I can. Remember, they don't have hunters."

Their eventual compromise was that Drizzle went back as far as the last point they had been on a goat path, and left the note, composed by committee but written by Eversweet, impaled on a thorn bush. It seemed a completely pointless ploy, but they assumed any bit of misdirection might help. 

The first greying of dawn found them waking stiff and uncomfortable. They were out of practice with sleeping on the ground, and true slumber had eluded all of them, interrupted by sounds, things crawling on them, and the lumpiness of the ground. All but Drizzle, that is, who seemed to be able to sleep deeply and at the same time be fully cognizant of what sounds were worth listening to. They had foregone dinner without speaking of it, all exhausted from their long day's work and none wishing to deplete their meagre resources so quickly. Now, though their bellies spoke loudly and they made a light and quick breakfast of bread and goat cheese, and began immediately upon their way, wishing to get well ahead of any pursuit as possible.

While Eversweet hung behind with Drizzle, helping him obscure their path as well as possible, and learning his language, a happy cloud of contentment hanging around her in constant smiles, the boys had a bit of time to talk privately, and Ethan started in with, "Pretty girl? Really? Why would you tell her such lies?"

"She is pretty! Granted, she could do with more baths -"

"As the whole Tribe could."

"- and to straighten up her posture a bit, maybe some good food for a while, a concept of table manners, better dental hygiene - "

"And to learn to not talk like a sailor, and to avoid subjects that genteel folk do not talk about, like procreation." 

"We'll have to do some work with her to help her fit in a little better in our colonies. But, she's started on the dental hygiene part."

"Yes, I noticed." It was not her own doing - Ethan had given her some yarn he had liberated so she could clean her teeth in the traditional way of her Tribe and Tom had explained how the boys, in the style he had learned with with the caravan, frayed the end of a twig and used it to scrape around their gums. He also explained that there were trees one did not use, urging her to point out a tree to him or Drizzle before chewing it's twigs least she find something which killed her. 

Drizzle made sure to keep them on trails that smelled less of goat, or game trails for preference, and they did their best to avoid tops of hills so as to not be silhouetted against the sky, but they tried to find places of high ground from which to view the trail behind them when possible. Only once, however, did they see something which might have been a human, and they couldn't be certain.

The second morning Drizzle lifted his nose into the breeze and said, "There they are!"

"What?

"The Walking Hills. The Grey Ones! It's been a while since I've seen one, but that smells right, at last!"

Tom tried the breeze himself, and could faintly detect something that reminded him of a horse, and Ethan and Eversweet both shook their heads.

When they topped the next hill, however, they could see large shapes moving in the trees below.

"Why, they're elephants!" Ethan exclaimed. "These are our Walking Hills? Ah! Finally the stories begin to make sense."

Tom stared at the creatures in confusion, eventually realizing he had seen a picture of an elephant once, in a child's picture book from the library which he'd read to one of his younger siblings. From Eversweet's expression she was even further at sea than he was.

"You've be looking for these... elephants?"

"Apparently they are what we had been looking for, though we didn't know it," Ethan started, and between the boys and Drizzle, as they descended the hill and lost sight of the beasts behind a screen of trees and bushes, they told her of the rumours of the Walking Hills, the giants who travelled far and quickly, who were called wise and kind, and who the Whistlers had thought might be their best chance of getting home. 

However, when they arrived in the open, park-like grove, Tom realized with a jolt that the branches which had been just over the heads of the elephants were quite beyond his own reach. "They must be bigger than a moose!"

"Of course they're bigger than a moose! We wouldn't call them Hills if they were only the size of a moose," Drizzle opined. 

However, big as they were, every elephant in the grove had now disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to admit it, but I actually made a slight edit to this Chapter, forgetting I had already posted it, then promptly forgot what I had changed (okay, rum might have been involved), and so I thought I might as well post the update. I don't think it was significant, but I don't like having a slightly different version saved on my computer than is on the site.
> 
> And did you notice I forgot about the rifle? I did. It slipped my mind. I'm fixing that in the next chapter; I might be learning how to write myself out of holes. I did NOT actually forget Drizzle, though it might have looked like that in the last chapter. No, I actually started writing the Chapter 18 with Ethan remembering to talk to Drizzle beforehand, but I couldn't make it work so that Eversweet would have the chance to attach herself to their party. Therefore Ethan had to be a thoughtless kid and forget to inform him of the plans. My excuse for everything: "they are teenagers!"


	20. Pachyderms and Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't catch up with their future, can't shake their past.

With the eagerness born of having spotted their quarry the humans of the party wished to push on and find the elephants, thinking that it would be only a matter of catching them up. Drizzle grunted in a way that Ethan and Tom both recognized as indicating that he thought they were being naive, but he obliged them by casting around for the trail and leading the way. 

Then followed some of the most frustrating hours the boys had experience on their journey thus far, as they found that the bushes which straggled around this wood were not plentiful, but created a maze-like series of overlapping screens. The elephants were glimpsed yet again (or one of them was), heard - or possibly heard - several times, but as dusk fell Drizzle, with a certain smugness, announced that it seemed the Grey Ones did not want to meet the cubs.

The humans of the group had to admit that might be the case, and Eversweet and Tom were rather brought down by it. Ethan refused to lose hope, however, setting his mind to it that he would find some way to charm the creatures. "But oh!" he exclaimed, "how very exciting! To find that they are living here quite in the wild where Earth creatures should not be able to live, and that they are sentient, when nothing of the sort was ever implied by anything I had ever read!" 

In their discouragement they had found a place to sit under the trees, where they were eating some of the flat, chewy bread made by Eversweet's Tribe, and a few pieces of dried fruit, Tom and Ethan quite close together and Eversweet a few measured paces away. Ethan had thoughtfully brought one of the thick little pottery teacups made by the Tribe for Drizzle, so that he was able to enjoy a drink of water with them, and he sat up and tipped it into his mouth as the humans did.

Tom washed down a bit of sticky fruit. "But the goats seemed to roam around quite wild."

"Ah," said Ethan, holding up a finger in a lecturing sort of way. "They ranged somewhat outside of the green area, that which would have been planted when the Tribe first arrived, but not far. You noticed, I'm sure, that as the leaves shifted to the bluer native colour the goat trails disappeared or wandered back and we were on game trails."

"How do you know?" Eversweet asked. "I mean, what's the difference between a goat trail and a game trail? I couldn't see the difference."

"I'm guessing because there were no more goat hoof prints?" Tom hazarded.

Drizzle whistled, "The smell was gone, too."

"Only you know about the smell," Tom replied in English, to include Eversweet, "But Ethan was right behind you in our march so only he knows about the hoof prints. Completely unfair, both of you, taking advantage of clues only you had." 

Eversweet raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes in surprise at Tom challenging Ethan this way, and Ethan looked uncertain as well, so Tom allowed himself to smile obviously, which he felt quite ruined the effect. He had meant it as gentle teasing, but both of them seemed to have a difficult time reading his face, although Ethan was getting better with familiarity. 

"I imagine," Ethan continued, "That the Tribe did the same thing our colony did when they arrived - a slash and burn and then reseeding with Earth plants. At the edges they grow intermingle a bit, but I noticed that same fade through of green to blue which we're familiar with from home."

Eversweet shrugged. "I don't know much about our history. There's probably a lot I've forgotten or haven't been told. I think most of this knowledge was lost with all the troubles. It was too long ago. How do you know so much about new colonies?"

"It was only a generation ago for us. I've seen photographs of my grandfather's men at work on the burning."

Tom nodded. "My grandfather worked on it. He hated it. Thought it was an awful way to come to a new planet." 

"Necessary if humans can't digest the local plants and animals, though. But that brings us back to these elephants. Are they eating native plants? They seemed to be feeding on these trees, and almost everything in this wood has more of the bluish tinge. We really must find them!"

"We'll find a way," Tom assured him, "But right now I need to go find myself a private bush."

"Be careful," Ethan said, automatically, as had become his mantra over the past day, travelling again in wild country. He had not gotten over the attack by the panther as well as Tom had, possibly because he'd been aware for the aftermath, and terrified.

"And I think I will take another look around by myself to see if I can find the Grey Ones. They may talk to me if I'm alone," said Drizzle, handing his cup back to Ethan.

As Tom searched for his perfect bush he found himself wondering about his Grandfather. He had been a tall man in his prime, just as Tom's father was, but now his every joint was gnarled, and he was cynical and cranky - although it was quite possible he had always been cynical and cranky even when young. He could also be very, very funny, and kind, and told every child growing up around him just exactly what he thought of this colony he'd ended up in - how he'd been roundly taken in by their promises of a new life in a healthful, clean, new planet, only to immediately be exposed to more smoke and soot, with the burning, than he'd seen in a lifetime back on Rigelfour, and seen people waste away coughing. He mocked words of the teachers and the priest when the children repeated to their grandfather that they were being taught that knowing your place was a good thing. "Oh, certainly - knowing your place saves you from getting the shit kicked out of you." Tom wondered if he would ever see the old man again to ask questions about the bits of stories he'd never quite remembered the links between. Would he still be living when Tom returned?

Tom felt much more certain they would return, now that their party had grown. It seemed that four might much more certainly overcome challenges than two might have.

And that was when he heard the shouting.

He darted and dodged through the maze of undergrowth, losing his way, and eventually bulling through several walls that were nearly hedge-like in their thickness, sustaining a considerable number of scratches. Confusingly, either he was continually getting turned around or the shrieks were moving. Angry, shrieks, he noted, not fearful. And he was hearing only Eversweet; somehow Ethan's voice was not carrying to him at all.

Despite the nearly overwhelming urge to move as quickly as possible, he forced himself to stop and listen, and look about himself critically for a moment, trying to find his bearings. Through the trees not far ahead there was a sense of openness; he was sure he was closer to the edge of the wood than they had been for an hour or more, and that worried him, as it meant Eversweet was moving, and from the sound of it, against her will.

"Ethan?" He assayed, calling tentatively at first, and then louder.

"Here! I'm fine! Go after Ev!" 

His voice did not sound quite steady, but as he could call out Tom reasoned it likely he would survive whatever had befallen him. He continued blundering on, and almost fell across the trail as he crashed out from the brush along one side, full sunlight suddenly hitting his head warmly. Turning, he followed the trail and the increasingly hoarse and less frequent shrieks. Closer, he could make out the curses she was hurling as handily as any sailor, and a deeper voice answering her occasionally. Their progress was not swift, and as he caught a glimpse of them through a slightly thinner spot in the bushes lining the trail he thought he could tell why; it seemed ever few feed of ground was gained only by dint of the man yanking her arms cruelly to throw her off balance and dragging her a few steps before she could stiffen her legs and dig her heels in again. Even as Tom rounded the corner the Sheppard attempted to surprise her with a spin and a pull intended to bring her across his shoulder, with the result for him being both her knees hitting him in the back with all the force he himself had imparted to her, and her commentary on his private life in regard to the goats uninterrupted.

"You were always a good girl before those foreign boys-"

"Put her down and face me!" Tom belted out in the best voice of command he could summon up given his lack of breath from running. 

The Sheppard spun in his tracks and met Tom's fist squarely to his jaw which toppled him half on top of Eversweet, but she was thrashing her way free of him in seconds.

He was up in a moment and went for Tom ferociously, taking him down, and for a few moments it was a mad tussle, the two bouncing and rolling as one creature across and about the trail, Eversweet, wide-eyed, dancing back to avoid being run over, and then pelting them both with small rocks and shouting something which resolved, as Tom attention was attracted and the Sheppard's attack slacked off, into, "He has the gun! He's loaded it! He will use it on you, Javi! Javier! Listen to me! Ethan will shoot you!"

The gambit worked, to an extent - the Sheppard broke, rolled, and bounced to his feet, where he swayed, taking his bearings, focussing on Phipps. "Ha! The thing doesn't work!"

For answer, Ethan aimed at the ground before his feet and fired. "It does. If you know how to use it."

Javier the Sheppard had gone instantly white beneath the grime of the fight, and he stumbled back as Ethan aimed the rifle at his chest. 

"Be gone," the boy pronounced levelly, "Now."

"You can't take this girl away from her family! The people who love her!"

Tom's respect for the man went up for standing his ground in the face of the rifle, and Tom picked himself up from where he'd been sitting, watching as if it were a show, in case further fighting was now going to be needed.

"We didn't want her with us," Ethan answered. "We tried to send her back. But since she's decided to be our comrade we'll fight for her."

The Sheppard looked to Eversweet for a long moment. "Why?"

"Don't. I can't believe... after this. You shouldn't need to ask that." She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. "If you take me home I won't stay. I'll find some way to get away, and my chances are better with friends. Just go the eff home. Tell my parents I love them and I'm doing what I want to do. I'll bring help back for everyone if I can. This is the best thing for... I think it will be best for me, and it might be best for the Village as well. Go!"

He drew himself up, squared his shoulders, nodded, and turned, walking away with his back straight. 

Ethan held the gun steady, aiming along the trail toward where the Sheppard had disappeared around the corner, for a long moment, and they all listened sharply, wondering if he would try to go off trail and circle around behind them, but after a time, the barrel of the gun wavered with exhaustion, dipped, and then he pointed it toward the ground, though he did not move.

Tom had lost interest in watching the trail after a moment, and had turned his attention to the blooming bruise barely visible spreading across the smooth curve of Ethan's dark cheekbone. He suspected there would be a bad lump under the thick and yarn-like hair, and wondered what they could do to relieve the headache. 

"Well." Ethan kept his voice quiet. "Do you think we might move along, now?" 

The other two nodded.

"He brought the gun?" Tom asked.

"Kind of him, wasn't it? I hadn't been able to find any way to smuggle it out. It's too long to hide easily."

"Why did he?"

"He knew it was a weapon. He just didn't know how to use it. When he first pointed it at me I'll admit I was pretty well terrified for a moment, trying to think if I was sure I'd left it unloaded."

Eversweet nodded. "Of course. I was, too! I've heard about guns. You just point them and pull a 'trigger' and people die. Although our old stories say it's a beam of light which comes out of them, not that invisible... force... thing."

"Bullet," Tom supplied. "It's a solid thing. Just goes so fast you can't see it."

"He didn't know how to load it. And of course the bullets are in Tom's coat pocket. Once I pulled myself together I got a bullet in and followed you." 

Tom flashed a quick smile to Eversweet. "Good thing your friend doesn't know anything about guns. The Enfield is single shot."

"Single shot?"

Ethan nodded. "I'd never have been able to reload while he was charging me. I would have had to use it the same way he did on me; as a club."

Eversweet's eyes opened wide. "He hit you with that? It's a wonder your head isn't split!"

"It may be. I don't feel all that great, to be honest."

"Could you carry the gun, Ev? Here, Ethan, lean on me. Let's just see if we can find our packs. In fact, now that we're in the shade why don't you sit down and wait where it's cool while we find them."

"You both sit down," said Eversweet. "I'll find the packs. Tom, you might not realize, you probably need to rest as well; you're a bit bruised. No, you're not fine. Well then just keep him company. What's the signal you use to call Drizzle?" She repeated the whistle a few times as the boys settled their backs against a tree near the trail, said, "I'll be back soon," and disappeared around the bend in the dappled shade.

"She can get pretty bossy," Ethan commented.

"Takes charge almost as well as you do, when she needs to. You'd better start teaching her how to be toff, she won't fit in as working class."

"With that vocabulary?"

"She knows when to use it, though. But as to work, and staying out of trouble... I don't know." He pulled Ethan's head gently down upon his shoulder. "Here, rest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, you see that? The gun that wasn't in the last chapter got used.


	21. A Mango a Day Does Not Keep The Doctor Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes once again depend on the kindness of strangers, but time is against them.

It was only a few minutes before the boys heard Eversweet hurrying back along the trail, her bare feet much quieter than their boots would have been. She came jogging around the corner trying to reach into one of the packs while keeping the other pack hooked on one shoulder, and carrying the Enfield in the crook of her arm in a manner that would have given Old George a conniption.

"Here, water! As soon as you can get yourself together we should get back to the clearing. The Elephants are there!" One could hear a capital letter in her voice.

"They'll be long gone by the time we can get back," Tom replied in discouragement.

"No, they didn't seem like they were going anywhere. They were sniffing - I think - our blankets and your coat. And Drizzle... I need to learn his language, he was whistling at me incessantly and waving his paws; I thought he meant I should get you. I think he's talked them into meeting us!" She burbled with excitement.

"An audience!" Ethan started to brush the dust off his clothes, jumped to his feet, and wobbled so drastically that Eversweet nearly lost her grip on everything she was carrying as she reached out to steady him. He looked a bit green.

"Oh, and I saw where you threw up at the clearing," Eversweet added. "I don't think we need to be in such a hurry that you end up doing that again."

Ethan gave a weak smile and took a few slow, small sips of water, leaning into Tom, who had now risen. 'My head doesn't like sudden movements, but I'll be fine." Though weak, his eyes gleamed with eagerness to see the legendary Walking Hills; perhaps more than before he had known they were Earth creatures. He gathered himself and was able to walk in a moment or two.

As they rounded the last screen of bushes they paused in awe. Their Whistler friend, who, even sitting up, only came to Tom's knee, was dwarfed by the bulk of an elephant. And behind those he was conversing directly with there were more of them, and then more, a moving mass of grey backs and flapping ears disappearing back into the trees

"There you are!" said Drizzle. "You look bad."

Ethan gave a little half bow, as though he'd been given a formal introduction. "Please tell them I'm most pleased to meet them and apologize for my dishevelled appearance," he said in English. He swayed a little. "Would it be rude of me to sit?"

Drizzle conversed for a moment with the spokesmen of the group and then nodded, with what amounted to a smile for him, with a sound of approval for Ethan's question. "Sit. All can sit," he said in English. 

As they made themselves comfortable he switched back to Whistle. "I've been discussing your case with them already, but the conversation may take some time. They like details, and they ask questions and discuss during the story."

"Do they understand Whistle?"

"Some of them do, but many words can be difficult for them to pronounce. They speak in lower tones with sounds I can't make. I understand their language, but can't really speak it very well. As a general rule we each speak in our own language and we piece it together."

One of the elephants who had been somewhat behind pushed a little forward and evidently asked a question, because Drizzle turned his attention back to them and replied to that individual, "Yes, I hadn't gotten to that part of the story yet. This female has left her burrow and joined this group a short time ago. Her burrow is failing and she hopes to find help from the burrow of the males."

One of the elders who had been in the forefront of the group gave the pushy one a light smack with their trunk, as though chastising the other for impatience.

"Are you telling the whole story of our journey so far?" Toms asked, in surprise.

"What I can, of course. You should feel free to add information you think is important. They like to know all details before they make decisions."

The discussion lasted far into the night, with Drizzle relaying questions and, later, arguments taken by the different factions, Ethan filling in what he needed to and replying to the arguments of those in favour of leaving the humans to make their own way. Initially Ethan complemented and flattered those who took up the cause of the little group of friends, until Drizzle warned him quietly, in English, that flattery ran a risk of turning them against him in suspicion. "Their minds are like the middle of the river. They seem slow, but you do not deviate them from their course, and attempts to do so can meet with resistance." 

Tom, meanwhile, translated all of the conversation to Eversweet, and the excitement kept them all awake far into the night. Eventually, however, many of the elephants began to nod off, and the discussion was officially called to a halt until morning. 

Sunlight dappling through the leaves above as he drifted slowly awake, wondering where he was, and what was that thing he had been almost upon the verge of understanding? A great, deep, mysterious language which he had almost grasped with a sense of awestruck delight... ah yes, the language of The Walking Hills. He lifted his head and looked around. Yes, they were still really there; huge, dark form after form, all around them now between the trees. He smiled and shook off sleep almost instantly.

Soon the others awoke as well, and ate a breakfast which, though still excited, was subdued beneath many an observing eye. Just before the debate had come to a halt the night before one elephant had spoken who said very little up to that point. She seemed to be an elder, and was referred to as "The One Who Finds Mutually Satisfactory Solutions" by Drizzle, though Ethan decided 'Arbiter' might be easier for the humans to use as a name, as this did appear to be her name, rather than a title. Her pronouncement was that these humans were, by what Drizzle said, helpless calves and could easily be taken on as pet projects, if someone might step forward to take responsibility for them. This thought travelled through the herd as a ripple with an echo of silence behind it as the others carefully considered her opinion, and eventually it had been agreed upon as acceptable to the rest of the group, although one younger male had insisted that the humans must promise that they would not reveal the existence of the elephants to anyone. Now that all were waking, the deep buzz of conversation again filled the air as word was passed that volunteers were being requested to take on personal responsibility for keeping these human calves.

When they had asked why the elephants didn't wish to be revealed to humans they were treated to a long ballad involving an entire herd being killed and enslaved, and assured that there were hundreds more like these. 

They were also not reticent about how they had come to be on this planet; they had been enslaved by humans who had used pain collars to induce the elephants to gather trees, which had been taken away by ships. After a while, however, the ships had ceased to come, and their piles of deadwood lay and rotted. For many years the elephants had followed the paths prescribed by their captors, replanting trees and waiting to see if the ships would return. Now there were no more collar bearers, the last had died some years ago, and they wandered where they wished - indeed they found they had to wander widely so that their need for food would not be too much of a burden on one area - and visiting with Whistler tribes here and there with whom they got along quite well. 

It was quite understandable to all the humans exactly why the elephants did not want their existence known, but Tom mused on this as he ate his breakfast. Ethan had seemed to think there was some great scientific interest to the fact that elephants were living in regions that had not been planted with Earth vegetation. Certainly it would be helpful to Eversweet's tribe to know this secret, because as things currently stood they had a very difficult time producing food to suit their needs. Their diet was too meagre and unvaried for good health - Tom's mother had always been a great advocate of variety in diet to encourage health - and he felt certain they were dying as much from their poor diet as they were from their inability to plan proper sewage and drinking water sources, or their lack of genetic diversity. Still, if they could get back to the colonies of the Victorians he was sure that the survival of all individuals of the Tribe would be better served by joining his own people, so the promise must be made, regardless of the scientific loss.

Arbiter discussed the format of this oath with Drizzle, and her suggestion was that the humans make vows to the individuals who had decided to take them on as pets, as she said personal oaths were always more emotionally binding. Meanwhile there was a bit more discussion going on among the herd, possibly even some deal-making and determination of precedence, though whether the humans were considered a great burden or of some interest as a break from monotony it was hard for them to tell. Eventually, three pushed their way forward. 

"These are your keepers," Drizzle translated, and Tom rendered it as "our sponsors" to Eversweet.

"Do we choose between them?" she asked.

"I'll try," Ethan offered. He stepped forward toward the smallest one, who reached out with it's trunk and touched the top of his head, then shoulder, which made him smile. 

"Her name is Modest," Drizzle supplied. 

"Very well." He took a deep breath and began, "I, Ethan Phipps, promise to you, Modest, that I will do nothing to jeopardize your... group. Er, ever. Not now or in the future. Your safety will be as my own while we travel together, and I will protect your secrets to the best of my abilities." Then he muttered under his breath, "There, I made a mess of that."

"Oh, I patched it up a little in translation," Drizzle offered airily, "But She says 'Very good. While you are with us I will protect you as my own child.'"

Ethan glowed at this, and shyly reached out to touch her trunk. 

The others, therefore, followed suit, and repeated what Ethan had said as near as they could remember it. Eversweet went last and was paired with Joker, who, immediately on her finishing her vow, wrapped his trunk around her waist and lifted her off the ground. She went big-eyed and squeaked, in an equal mix of fear and delight. "What! What? What does he want!?"

Arbiter gave Joker a whack with her trunk, a gabble of translations went around, and Tom called up to her, "He's just teasing you! And she scolded him for it, because she says you're so small he might hurt you by accident. But he says he can't see how you can keep up walking, with those short legs, and he's trying to put you on his back."

Joker had set her down and wrapped his trunk over her shoulder in a companionable manner, and now they began to experiment with ways she could climb up, with, of course, plenty of discussion from the rest of the elephants and translations through all three languages. 

The boys took off their boots and hung them around their necks, then worked with their own sponsors, and soon several different ways of mounting had been worked out, all of which required the active assistance of the individual being climbed upon. Eversweet and Joker worked out a method which involved a sort of bow by him and her walking up his trunk as he raised it. 

Drizzle had the most difficult time of it, being too short and not built for climbing, but Tom carried him up with him atop Curious, the largest of the three who had volunteered. Tom had felt he should not ask a smaller creature to carry him, though he realized the difference between his weight and the others was probably negligible to the Walking Hills. 

Tom was not a talker by inclination, but Curious was, as his name suggested, full of questions. With Drizzle to translate, Tom soon found himself understanding a bit more of the language, and surprised himself by how much information he could supply, and how he was drawn out into conversation. The three elephants hung close together so that the other humans could profit by this as well, and great strides were made in mutual understanding within the next few days as they discussed topics from family and customs to food and drink. 

Philosophizing seemed to be as natural to them as breathing - they loved to talk about the how and why of things, suggest theories and build great structures of logic upon them in their arguments. One topic that appeared to be an old favourite, and was returned to now with renewed vigour injected by information gathered from the humans, was whether or not mangos should be purposely crushed and fermented. Tom had observed and helped with home brewing and was able to give them solid and tested recommendations on how it worked, which was a novel situation given that all they had previously been able to base this discussion upon had been theory. Still, some of their theories had apparently been quite good and accurate. They had even hypothesized very small animals which caused the transformation from a regular mango to one which caused inebriation. 

"Bacteria we call them," said Tom, "And when you find the type that produces the flavour you like, save a little of that brewing to start the next batch, because different types of bacteria produce different results."

Still there was a great philosophical divide between the members of the herd who felt that imbibing was something to be desired and those who felt drunkenness was to be avoided, and then those who felt that building things like vats or engaging in agriculture, which might lead to concepts of property, could be much more sullying to their minds than mere drunkenness.

Great strides could have described the pace of the Walking Hills as well, for though they seemed to move in an unhurried fashion the humans could quickly see that they covered a great deal more ground than their much shorter legs could ever have expected to on their own. Joker had been correct in saying that they should ride. However, even at this pace the elephants estimated it would be a few weeks before they could be close enough that the humans could finish the trip on foot. And the ride was far from comfortable, at least to start, with the rocking inducing rather severe nausea for Eversweet. Both boys suffered less in that respect, possibly because they were quite used to being on the water, but they both found the sway worked their lower backs and the seating arrangement stretched Tom's legs in ways to which he was quite unaccustomed, so none of them were very comfortable. 

But none of the negative aspects of their situation, neither the nausea and pain at first induced by the riding not the worries of starvation, could take much away from the joy and wonder of this ride. Although Tom still wanted to see his family again, and he knew Eversweet wanted to get help for her tribe, still his delight in rocking along all day under the cool green leaves, swimming in every river or pond which they came to and then drying on the sunny banks, sleeping and waking and conversing with these legendary great beasts, was undiminished, and he never wanted it to end, and the others seemed every bit as content as he. 

He and Ethan both wished they had a bit more privacy, but it couldn't be helped. Although sometimes he happened to look over and see the curve of Ethan's dark cheekbone or the corner of his wrist, or catch his gaze across the backs of their friends and sometimes Tom would fall into a reverie of what it might be like if they rode together, their bodies rocking against one another. Then he was pulled back to reality by Drizzle passing on some question which Curious had directed at him, and he would blush brightly, realizing he'd been caught up day dreaming. He was certain that Ethan could tell exactly what he had been thinking of, and suspected Drizzle could was well. Eversweet he wasn't sure of. She was distracted by her own misery, but once he came out of a daydream to realize she was looking at him with a frank and open smile, a fond look. He had broken the gaze in confusion, and when he looked back she had seemed withdrawn and sad. 

When Curious, as his request, brought him near to her, Tom said, "We would still be in quite a crowd of friends, you know. We're happy to have you with us."

She started and stared at him. "I don't know if Ethan feels the same," she said at last. 

"Oh, he will come around. Ask him to tell you some stories to distract you from your illness."

At first Ethan scowled, but Tom stared at him until he complied, and he soon warmed to the task, and, over the next few days, to Eversweet as well. 

"She really is a good sort," he said to Tom one evening, quite without preamble. "She sticks by what she says." (By this Tom felt certain that Ethan meant she had not made any move to come between them, and continued to sleep away from them, with Drizzle keeping her company.)

"I think you were right, though. We want to make her a good marriage. We need to make her appear to be... exotic royalty. A princess of her people. We can't make her fit in, exactly, but if she is unusual and appears important, perhaps she can make her own place. I need to teach her how to act arrogant and disdainful." He flashed a sudden grin at Tom, who burst out laughing.

"If anyone could teach that I'm sure it would be you!"

"Don't laugh! It's not easy to get the exactly appropriate amount of disdain for every situation. I had to learn because people didn't like me."

"So you learned to make them dislike you for a reason?"

"No." He hesitated, and even in the dim light which filtered through from the moons above the forest canopy Tom could tell Ethan looked desperately sad. "It was a way to not give them the victory of knowing they had hurt me." 

Tom's throat closed with a great lump and he pulled Ethan closer and smoothed soothing circles on his back. 

They explained the scheme to her the next morning and began to look for ways they could make her worn clothing into a suitably exotic costume, finding nuts and seeds to sew on like beading, or small feathers to use as trim. They also worked on how she should speak and her poise, all of which had the added advantage of distracting her from her illness, which had worsened. 

Indeed, they all were rather uncomfortable from the diet which they were now forced to - the only Earth-based food they'd had for days had been mangoes, from the occasional grove which the elephants brought them through. In addition, a persistent rain storm had set upon them that day. Previously storms had drenched them, then the sun had come out and dried their clothes and all was well again, but this was a rain like that which the boys knew well from home, and the cold seeped into their bones and stayed there all that day, and the next. 

The third day of this Tom was wakened by Curious pulling back the coat which the boys had sheltered under. Ethan at first shuddered and snuggled closer, then opened his eyes blearily at the trunk questing about his ear, and mumbled something indistinct.

"Joker says you should come see to Eversweet. She's not well. He thinks she should stay in her nest. No travel today," Curious said.

They shook the sleep from their heads, rolled out immediately, and were shown to where she (or possibly Joker) had made her bed, sheltered under thick leaves and with a rather good pile of dry grass beneath her to keep her off the wet ground. Joker stood guard over her, rocking side to side with an evident frustration that he could do nothing more for her, and she lay flushed, burning with fever, and incoherent.


End file.
